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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27613958">to the red planet Mars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_astra/pseuds/r_astra'>r_astra</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Batfamily-centric (DCU), Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Hurt Jason Todd, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Physical Abuse, Timeline What Timeline, Whump, ive literally never read a comic so, just about everybody shows up at somepoint</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:53:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>36,912</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27613958</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_astra/pseuds/r_astra</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim doesn’t notice the Batmobile roaring into the cave until the tires squeal as it skids to a halt.</p>
<p>He starts, splashing long-cooled coffee across his lap as he lurches upright. Bruce is practically throwing himself out of the driver’s seat. He stalks around to the back of the car and Tim stares, confused.</p>
<p>The trunk?</p>
<p>He calls out. “Mask?”</p>
<p>Bruce grunts a negative.</p>
<p>Tim circles the car in time to see Bruce haul something—someone out. They’re big, but not quite as tall as Bruce, clad in black Kevlar and brown leather, wrists cuffed. Tim stops in his tracks when he recognizes the man.</p>
<p>It’s Jason Todd.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jason Todd &amp; Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd &amp; Everyone, Roy Harper &amp; Jason Todd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>220</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1238</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “The Light of Stars,” which is a thing of fucking beauty: go read it right now, this can wait.</p>
<p>So, this deals with some heavy shit. I don’t pretend to be an expert on abuse or the kind of wacked out mental state it has to take to be the fucking Batman or any of his associates, so this is not meant to be any sort of advice on abusive relationships or parenting or violence or literally anything. It’s just a story about a dad and his kid trying to fix a really, really broken relationship.</p>
<p>And also, you know, emotional repression and beating the shit out of criminals, because Batman.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
    Tim pulls into the cave a little after four in the morning. He parks his
    bike. Crookedly. Sloppily. Honestly, he’s just glad he managed to dismount
    without falling over.
</p>
<p>
    The chair by the Batcomputer is waiting for him like an old and probably
    toxic friend. The report is dull. It was a slow night.
</p>
<p>
    He checks his schedule, then his watch. He has a meeting in four hours.
</p>
<p>
    Shit.
</p>
<p>
    There’s time to squeeze in one or two hours of sleep. Not at his apartment,
    but he can take a nap here. To be safe, he should do it now, in case
    something comes up. He tries to remember the last time he slept. The unread
    reports stare up at him from the screen. He thinks about climbing into one
    of the medical cots on the other side of the cave.
</p>
<p>
    He puts on a pot of coffee instead.
</p>
<p>
    His domino tugs at his skin painfully as he pulls it off. He should be used
    to the feeling by now, but he’s annoyed anyway. Then he’s annoyed that he’s
    annoyed.
</p>
<p>
    Groaning, he scrubs a hand over his face. Breathes deep. Counts to ten. He
    should be used to all of this by now.
</p>
<p>
    The chair is waiting for him and he settles back into it, warm mug cradled
    in one hand. He pulls up the most relevant reports and starts reading.
</p>
<p>
    The clock is ticking.
</p>
<p>
    He’s so zoned into the screen he doesn’t notice the Batmobile roaring into
    the cave until the tires squeal as it skids to a halt.
</p>
<p>
    Tim starts, splashing long-cooled coffee across his lap as he lurches
    upright. Bruce is practically throwing himself out of the driver’s seat. He
    stalks around to the back of the car and Tim stares, confused.
</p>
<p>
    The trunk?
</p>
<p>
    He calls out. “Mask?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce grunts a negative.
</p>
<p>
    Tim circles the car in time to see Bruce haul something—<em>someone</em>
    out. They’re big, but not quite as tall as Bruce, clad in black Kevlar and
    brown leather, wrists cuffed. Tim stops in his tracks when he recognizes
    the man.
</p>
<p>
    It’s Jason fucking Todd.
</p><hr/>
<p>
    The whole fuckin’ disaster starts like this:
</p>
<p>
    Jason’s casing a warehouse in New York, looking for some stolen power
    cells, when the Batman shows his ugly mug out of fuckin’ nowhere.
</p>
<p>
    As soon as he sees the flutter of cape, Jason ducks down behind the one of
    the crates in the warehouse, hoping he wasn’t just spotted. “What the fuck
    are you doing here?” he whispers furiously. He’d be willing to trade his
    own left leg for a sightline, but he can’t risk moving. The Bat will see
    him if he moves. Every second that goes by without knowing if he’s made,
    his pulse pounds louder and faster in his ears. There’s blood in his mouth
    and he <em>knows it’s not fuckin’ real, fuckin’ </em>stop<em> it.</em>
</p>
<p>
    He yanks the helmet off, suddenly claustrophobic, and sucks in a breath of
    unfiltered air. He takes a few lung-fuls, trying to stay calm. He can
    finish the job. It’s fine. He’s fine, and this is <em>fuckin’ dumb</em> and
    he can finish the job. He can.
</p>
<p>
    And then he thinks: <em>Fuck this shit.</em>
</p>
<p>
    He turns to leave, helmet in hand, and runs straight into a motherfucking
    nightmare.
</p>
<p>
    He jerks back, blind, his pulse shooting through the fuckin’ <em>roof</em>.
    A kick and a gut punch in quick succession and he’s left wheezing, half-mad
    with panic, and then a heavy gauntlet is wrapped around the side of his
    head and—
</p>
<p>
    That’s a wall.
</p>
<p>
    Fuck.
</p>
<p>
    That’s—
</p>
<p>
    Jason swallows convulsively, his tongue feeling heavy and too-big in his
    mouth. The warehouse lurches psychotically and he wonders for a minute if
    one of the rogues managed to manipulate physics somehow, but then it
    settles down.
</p>
<p>
    The ringing in his ears fades a bit and he swallows again, trying not to
    vomit. He’s curled in on himself, lying on the ground. He blinks, trying to
    clear his vision as the warehouse lurches again.
</p>
<p>
    No, this time it’s him that’s moving.
</p>
<p>
    Batman’s iron grip is wrapped around the collar of Jason’s jacket, dragging
    him up like he doesn’t weigh a thing. Jason gets a flash of the suit, the
    warehouse behind it, and then a face-full of pissed-off vigilante. He’s
    thrown against the wall, hard, and then Batman’s all up in his face again,
    armored forearm pinning him by the throat.
</p>
<p>
    “I told you to stay <em>out of Gotham</em>,” the Dark Knight thunders, and
    Jason scowls. He hasn’t been in Gotham in <em>months.</em>
</p>
<p>
    “Does this look like fuckin’ Gotham to you?”
</p>
<p>
    The arm under his chin shoves up and back and Jason’s hands jerk up to
    scrabble for a hold on the armor as his feet stop touching the ground.
</p>
<p>
    “I haven’t been anywhere,” Jason drags in a painful breath, “<em>near </em>
    Gotham. I swear to fuckin’ God.”
</p>
<p>
    The Bat lets him back down, gasping, and scowls: “Then what are you doing
    here?”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m following a lead.” Jason tries to sound placating but, Jesus fuck,
    aggression is his default setting. He’s pretty sure it comes out as a
    snarl.
</p>
<p>
    The older man grunts, unimpressed. “What lead?”
</p>
<p>
    “Not one from Gotham, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Jason’s trying to
    rein in his rapid pulse, but he’s not having much luck. There’s still blood
    on his tongue, but he can feel it dripping down his chin now, so it’s
    probably real.<em></em>
</p>
<p>
    “From where, then?” The demand is accompanied by a hard shake, slamming
    Jason’s unprotected head against the wall.
</p>
<p>
    “Fuckin’ <em>here,</em>” Jason says, blinking stars from his eyes and
    cursing himself for taking the helmet off. “Jesus <em>Christ,</em> B.”
</p>
<p>
    “Are you currently operating as the mercenary White Phantom?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason stares. “What the fuck is a White Phantom?”
</p>
<p>
    The older man grunts, apparently satisfied, and Jason nearly falls when he
    lets him go. As it is, he crashes hard to one knee, throwing a hand against
    the wall for balance, and nearly blacks out from how bad it jostles his
    ribs. By the time he’s back on his feet, his helmet is tucked securely
    under Batman’s arm.
</p>
<p>
    Fuck.
</p>
<p>
    He’s trying to convince himself not to run and leave it behind when company
    arrives.
</p>
<p>
    “The Batman,” the man hums, sounding pleased. “I’ve been expecting you.”
    The man’s eyes flick down to the red helmet, then to Jason. “Red Hood, is
    it?”
</p>
<p>
    “Not interested, man,” Jason huffs. “Looking for some missing contraband,
    not—” he eyes the freaky, glowing staff in his hand suspiciously,
    “—whatever the fuck you are.”
</p>
<p>
    It’s the wrong thing to say, apparently, because the man curls his mouth
    into a snarl. “Then I will destroy you as well,” he vows, and levels the
    staff just as Batman hurls a Batarang. The man—witch? Is he supposed to
    assume he’s a witch?—dodges, but misses his shot as a result. Jason’s hair
    gets blown forward by some sort of rebound from the white pulse of
    probably-magic splashing against the wall. Spooky as shit.
</p>
<p>
    “Hey,” Jason says, but has to pause to dodge another pulse. “This fight
    needs to be <em>not here</em>—”
</p>
<p>
    The witch is standing right in front of one of the crates and if Jason’s
    right about their contents, that’s <em>really bad.</em> “Batman!” Jason
    yells. “We gotta relocate! NOW!”
</p>
<p>
    But Batman’s not listening, stepping out of the path of another blast as he
    throws a Batarang. Jason tracks it as it tumbles end-over-end, headed
    straight for the white, glowing crystal at the tip of the staff.
</p>
<p>
    <em>Fuck,</em> Jason thinks, and watches in what feels like slow-motion as the witch’s
    eyes widen comically. He drops the staff and fucking <em>disappears</em>,
    just <em>poofs</em> into thin air.
</p>
<p>
An instant later, the Batarang hits the crystal and fucking<em>explodes</em>, catching the nearest crate, which    <em>also explodes,</em> and Jason thinks:
</p>
<p>
    <em>Oh,</em>
    fuck, <em>not again</em>.
</p><hr/>
<p>
    “Fuck.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce’s eyes snap open. He’s face-up, the cowl’s on, and he’s lying on a
    hard, uneven surface. Damage: low. Bruce lurches up—and immediately falls
    back, the blinding pain in his head stopping him in his tracks as easily as
    a brick wall.
</p>
<p>
    Damage: moderate. Possible concussion.
</p>
<p>
    To his left, someone’s groaning. He can hear rubble shifting as they drag
    themselves to their feet. A man. Large. Hurt, but moving anyway.
</p>
<p>
    Red Hood.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce breathes past the pain, swallowing back bile, and manages to turn his
    head.
</p>
<p>
    The younger man is walking away unsteadily, one hand hanging limp at his
    side while the other trails along what’s left of the wall. As Bruce
    watches, he stumbles, barely managing to stay upright. He gets about fifty
    or sixty feet away, then stops abruptly.
</p>
<p>
    The pressure in Bruce’s head mounts, his jaw clenches. Hood’s panting as he
    hunkers down and braces his feet like he’s walking into the wind. His next
    step sends him reeling backwards, crashing to the ground and clutching his
    helmetless head.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce grunts in pain…in unison with the younger man.
</p>
<p>
    …what.
</p>
<p>
    “Batman,” Red Hood groans from his spot on the floor somewhere to Bruce’s
    left. “You alive? I think we got fuckin’ whammied.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce opens his eyes, turning to look at the younger man sluggishly.
</p>
<p>
    “There’s some sort of barrier or something.” The man flails a hand in the
    direction he tried to walk.
</p>
<p>
    Jaw clenched tight, Bruce drags himself to his feet and takes a look
    around. The warehouse is pretty much destroyed, the structure is heavily
    damaged, and all the nearby crates are burning with strange, white flames.
    Except there’s no heat coming from them, so…
</p>
<p>
    Magical flames. Probably.
</p>
<p>
    While he was taking stock of the surroundings, Hood must’ve moved, because
    he’s propped up against a piece of the wall when Bruce looks back his way,
    head tilted back to rest against the concrete and blue-green eyes watching
    Bruce, gaze sharp. “Stay down.” Bruce grunts, keeping him in his line of
    sight. “Where’s the barrier?”
</p>
<p>
    Hood points. “Just past that crate.” Bruce walks over cautiously. “Little
    farther.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce sets his jaw, bracing for the rush of pain in his head that…doesn’t
    come.
</p>
<p>
    He grunts, turns back to look at Hood suspiciously.
</p>
<p>
    The younger man frowns. “I swear, it was right there.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce takes another step, and another, and another.
</p>
<p>
    “Nothing?”
</p>
<p>
    “Nothing.”
</p>
<p>
    “Huh,” Hood huffs, then levers himself upright. “I’ll just be—” He jerks a
    hand in a vague <em>away</em> sort of gesture and starts jogging.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce turns, opens his mouth to order him to wait, and then drops to one
    knee, the world whiting out as something <em>crushes his goddamn skull.</em>
</p>
<p>
    When he comes back around, Hood is sprawled on the ground, breathing hard
    and ragged. After a few minutes, he starts to get back up and Bruce barks:
    “Stop!”
</p>
<p>
    He doesn’t stop.
</p>
<p>
    “Hood,” Bruce says, trying to muster the energy to get up. “Stop. It’s not
    a barrier, it’s a <em>radius</em>.”
</p>
<p>
    “What the fuck does that—” the younger man cuts himself off, looks
    pointedly at the space between them—fifty or sixty feet—and drops his head
    into his hands. “You’ve gotta be <em>kidding me</em>.” He breathes for a
    minute, back turned, then says: “You sure?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce grunts.
</p>
<p>
    Hood sighs. “Stay put.” And he inches forward. The pressure in Bruce’s head
    builds and he breathes through it, dragging himself back to his feet. By
    the time Hood stops, he can hardly see straight.
</p>
<p>
    He steps forward and the pain drops, more and more the closer he gets to
    the other man, until he’s only a few yards away and it’s not <em>gone</em>,
    but it’s tolerable. “A radius.”
</p>
<p>
    Hood snarls, crossing his arms. “Will it wear off?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know. Instead, he says: “What was in the
    crates?”
</p>
<p>
    Hood kicks violently at a patch of the pale flames. “Some sort of energy
    cells. Experimental. Alien, probably.”
</p>
<p>
    “Hn.”
</p>
<p>
    Hood doesn’t say anything, just stomps out the patch of fire and keeps
    looking angry.
</p>
<p>
    “We’re going to the cave.”
</p>
<p>
    Hood jerks his head up. “Hell, no.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce starts walking towards the Batmobile.
</p>
<p>
    “No,” Hood repeats. “No way. I’m not allowed in Gotham, remember?”
</p>
<p>
    “Hn.” Bruce keeps walking, the pressure in his head building and then
    easing as Hood must start following.
</p>
<p>
    Hood doesn’t respond, but Bruce can hear him swearing under his breath in
    one long, continuous stream. When they reach the Batmobile, Bruce pulls out
    a pair of cuffs.
</p>
<p>
    “Seriously?” Hood sighs. He holds his wrists out anyway. Bruce slaps the
    cuffs on and checks to make sure they adjusted themselves correctly, then
    grabs Hood by the elbow and starts dragging him towards the back of the
    vehicle.
</p>
<p>
    Hood must be processing slowly, because he doesn’t start fighting until
    they get within a yard of the trunk.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce wins.
</p><hr/>
<p>
    Tim taps against the desktop impatiently, eyes boring into the side of
    Bruce’s head.
</p>
<p>
    “Bruce,” Tim says for what feels like the millionth time. “What the hell is
    going on?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce just grunts, typing rapidly. He sends a message to… Zatanna Zatara?
    He pulls up everything they have on magical boundaries. He pulls up
    everything they have on Jason Todd.
</p>
<p>
    Tim is so confused.
</p>
<p>
    “Bruce,” he repeats. “Come on, what happened?”
</p>
<p>
    The older man pushes back from the computer and finally looks up at Tim. “I
    was investigating a warehouse in New York when I encountered Red Hood.
    While I was assessing his motivations, a magic-user of some kind revealed
    himself and engaged in combat with myself as well as Red Hood. I believe
    this man to be the mercenary operating as the White Phantom. One of his
    blasts hit a crate of energy cells, which resulted in the explosion of the
    warehouse. The magic-user teleported away just before the explosion. When I
    regained consciousness, it quickly became apparent that Red Hood and I
    could not be separated by more than about twenty meters.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim waits for a minute and then says: “And?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce stares at him blankly. “I headed for the cave and contacted Zatanna
    to have her come and break the spell. She is unavailable until later this
    week.”
</p>
<p>
    “Why—no, how,<em> how</em> did you get him in your trunk?”
</p>
<p>
    “By force.”
</p>
<p>
    Yeah, obviously. Tim gives up. “Are there any other effects?”
</p>
<p>
    “Not that I’m sure of.”
</p>
<p>
    “And that you’re not sure of?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce waits a moment, then says: “It’s possible there is some sort of pain
    transference.”
</p>
<p>
    “What?”
</p>
<p>
    “Hood sustained a head injury early in the confrontation,” Bruce says. “As
    far as I can tell, I did not.”
</p>
<p>
    “But your head hurts,” Tim guesses.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce grunts an affirmative.
</p>
<p>
    “Anything else?”
</p>
<p>
    “Impossible to say, with the explosion.”
</p>
<p>
    “Fair.” Tim thinks for a moment, then decides. “I’m going to go check him
    over for injuries. That should help us narrow it down.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim starts to walk away, but Bruce’s hand on his shoulder stops him in his
    tracks. “Tim,” he says. “I’ll do it.”
</p>
<p>
    “No offense, B,” Tim says. “But I really don’t think you’re the best man
    for the job.” Not that he’s on good terms with Jason either, but, well,
    Tim’s not Bruce. The most likely scenario if Bruce goes in there is Jason
    flipping him off and playing a gleefully spiteful game of keep away with
    any info Bruce asks for.
</p>
<p>
    “He’s dangerous.”
</p>
<p>
    “He’s cuffed,” Tim counters. “What’s going to happen?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce frowns. “Stay outside the cell.”
</p>
<p>
    “How am I going to—”
</p>
<p>
    “Tim.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fine.”
</p>
<p>
    Jesus, this is going to be a hassle.
</p>
<p>
    The cell Bruce put Jason in is small, but clearly designed for extended
    use. There’s a small bathroom area in the corner with a sink, shower, and
    toilet, no walls. The cells were not designed with privacy in mind.
</p>
<p>
    Jason is sitting against the back wall, pressed into the corner with his
    elbows resting on his raised knees. Hands cuffed. Shoulders tense. Posture
    defensive.
</p>
<p>
Unsettlingly still. Tim can’t remember if he’s ever seen Jason Todd <em>not move</em> for longer than a second or two.
</p>
<p>
    His head is tipped back to rest against the wall, eyes closed. If not for
    the tension in his shoulders and jaw, he could be asleep.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce must’ve made him strip before locking him in, because he’s
    half-naked. His body armor is nowhere to be seen and all he has now is a
    pair of black joggers, feet and chest bare. Tim can see goosebumps on his
    arms. He’s lost weight since the last time Tim laid eyes on him, over a
    year ago now.
</p>
<p>
    He looks like shit, Tim realizes, and immediately feels like a crap person
    for not noticing right away. The circles under his eyes are so dark they
    could pass as bruises. His skin has an unhealthy cast to it, looking nearly
    gray in the cell’s harsh florescent lighting.
</p>
<p>
    He looks <em>half dead.</em>
</p>
<p>
    Tim shakes his head and starts cataloguing injuries.
</p>
<p>
    There’s blood smeared against the back wall that must be from the head
    wound. His hair’s dark and damp with something. It’s impossible to say if
    it’s blood, sweat, or just grease from the angle Tim’s got, but he’s gonna
    go with <em>blood</em>, considering the sheer amount of it smeared across
    the right side of his face. Underneath all the red, he’s got a nasty shiner
    forming over his right eye. His brow’s split open, still bleeding
    sluggishly. There are bruises all over the rest of his body, some of them
    obviously from a fight, others ambiguous. His ribs, though, are marked with
    the kind of patchy, dark red mottling that means they’re probably broken.
    There’s a slash across his left bicep, but it looks clean. Not too deep.
</p>
<p>
    His hands are freshly battered, knuckles stained with blood and quickly
    forming bruises. It’s hard to tell if any of his fingers are broken, all
    ten of them are crooked. His wrists are rubbed raw from the cuffs, blood
    dripping slowly off the metal and into a slowly growing pool between his
    feet. Jason’s not doing a damn thing to stop it.
</p>
<p>
    Tim swallows, suddenly nauseous.
</p>
<p>
    He presses the button for the microphone and Jason flinches at the low hiss
    of static, eyes flying open.
</p>
<p>
    “Hi,” Tim says. “I need an injury report.”
</p>
<p>
    “That you, Replacement?” Jason says. Tim was expecting malice, but he just
    sounds tired.
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah,” Tim says. “Injury report.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason looks at the speaker, then at the wall of one-way glass. He closes
    his eyes again.
</p>
<p>
    Tim waits.
</p>
<p>
    Finally, Jason says: “Why?”
</p>
<p>
    Tim doesn’t know what to say.
</p>
<p>
    After an awkward minute, Jason exhales and starts talking. “Concussion,” he
    says. “Fractured ribs. Don’t know how many. Banged up a little from the
    explosion. Bruises and shit.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim waits for him to continue, then prompts: “Your hands?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason rolls his hands open and closed a few times. “They’re fine.”
</p>
<p>
    “You’re bleeding.”
</p>
<p>
    “Cuffs cut into the skin.”
</p>
<p>
    “They’re not supposed to do that.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason blinks his eyes open slowly and stares at the glass. “Is that my
    fault?”
</p>
<p>
    Blood drips from his wrists in a slow <em>plink, plink, plink</em>.
</p>
<p>
    Tim leaves.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce is waiting just outside the containment area, leaned up against the
    exterior wall.
</p>
<p>
    Tim gives him a look and he grunts, brow furrowed.
</p>
<p>
    “I’m not a kid,” Tim says, crossing his arms. “You—”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce is shaking his head, frowning. “I know,” he says. “I wasn’t watching
    you.”
</p>
<p>
    Oh. “Then—”
</p>
<p>
    “Headache isn’t as bad when I’m close,” Bruce admits.
</p>
<p>
    Silence reigns for an awkward moment, then Tim says: “Do your ribs hurt?”
</p>
<p>
    “I bruised them in the explosion,” Bruce confirms.
</p>
<p>
    “Are you sure?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce opens his mouth, then closes it. He leaves and comes back in sweats
    and a t-shirt instead of the Batsuit, frowning even deeper than before. “No
    bruising.”
</p>
<p>
    “Pain transference,” Tim says. He checks his watch. He has to be at Wayne
    Enterprises in an hour. Shit.
</p>
<p>
    “Could you see all his injuries?”
</p>
<p>
    Tim shrugs. “Couldn’t see his back or legs. His hands are all busted up.
    He’s got a head wound. Looks like at least two broken ribs. And, uh, his
    wrists are bleeding. Says the cuffs cut into them.”
</p>
<p>
    “That’s not possible.”
</p>
<p>
    “I know,” Tim says. “I designed them.” He’d have to have been throwing
    everything he had at those cuffs to wear that deep into his skin. They
    didn’t have any sharp edges.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce is silent for a moment. “It must’ve been in the trunk. His wrists
    weren’t bleeding when I put him in.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim frowns. “Is that when he wrecked his hands, too?”
</p>
<p>
    The older man looks vaguely upset as he nods haltingly, scrubbing a hand
    over his face. “Must’ve been.”
</p>
<p>
    The thought makes Tim feel sick. He must’ve been slamming his hands against
    the lid of the compartment all the way from New York to Gotham. “Why would
    he do that?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce grunts, his expression grim.
</p>
<p>
    “He seemed tense,” Tim says. “But not—not that upset. He’s not raging. He
    doesn’t even seem angry.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce just grunts again.
</p>
<p>
    Tim goes to take a shower.
</p><hr/>
<p>
    Tim can barely concentrate on the meeting and while he’d normally blame it
    on sleep deprivation, it’s Jason that’s really distracting him. He just
    can’t shake the weird feeling he’s getting from the whole situation.
</p>
<p>
    It was the way he talked that’s throwing him off so much, Tim finally
    decides. Or maybe the way he didn’t move. Looking like shit, that’s normal.
    Or normal enough. The lack of anger was not normal. Not for Jason. The guy
    sitting still and silent in that cell is wildly different from the one that
    came after Tim, that night at the Tower, years ago now. That guy was
    unhinged. Excessively violent. Terrifying, if Tim’s being honest with
    himself. The time Jason stabbed him wasn’t much better.
</p>
<p>
    The meeting finally wraps up around noon and he heads back to the manor an
    hour or two later, after everything’s set up well enough to run without him
    for a few days.
</p>
<p>
    He rushes down to the cave, feeling dumb for being so worried but unable to
    stop. He slides to a halt at the sight of Bruce sprawled out on a cot up
    against the wall of the containment area, fast asleep.
</p>
<p>
    He stares for a minute, baffled, then jerks his head around at the sound of
    voices.
</p>
<p>
    Fuck. Damian.
</p>
<p>
    Sure enough, the little brat is standing outside of Jason’s cell when Tim
    walks in, his posture angry and threatening. Jason’s still in his corner,
    eyes shut, head tipped back. He’s not bleeding anymore, but the amount of
    red on the floor indicates that’s a recent development. “You’re fortunate
    that I have more honor than the likes of you, Todd,” Damian’s seething, “or
    I would kill you where you stand!”
</p>
<p>
    “Whatever you say, al Ghul.”
</p>
<p>
    The animalistic sound of rage that Damian lets out has the ungodly effect
    of being both intimidating and strangely endearing.
</p>
<p>
    Jesus, this kid.
</p>
<p>
    Tim reaches past him to shut off the mic, then says: “I’m honestly
    surprised you haven’t killed him yet.”
</p>
<p>
    Damian glares at him for a moment, then huffs. “Father has deemed me
    unworthy of access.”
</p>
<p>
    Time raises a single brow. “You’re locked out?”
</p>
<p>
    “Hn.”
</p>
<p>
    The struggle not to laugh is one that Tim nearly loses. When he gets a hold
    of himself, he looks up to see Jason staring right at him and nearly pisses
    himself.
</p>
<p>
    Tim stares back, frozen, until he realizes Jason’s looking about four
    inches above his left shoulder. He shakes himself out of it. Jesus.
</p>
<p>
    “You are a disgrace, Drake,” Damian says. He’s got a dumbass grin on his
    face like this is the best thing that ever happened to him.
</p>
<p>
    Tim scowls. “Shut up.”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m telling him,” Damian says, reaching for the mic gleefully. Tim tackles
    him.
</p>
<p>
    Damian snarls, Tim grabs for his leg, and then they’re on the ground.
    Grappling with Damian is weird as hell. He’s too heavy for his short little
    body and it’s throws Tim off, makes him have to readjust constantly. He
    gets him in a hold, but it’s not going to last long. Damian’s got his arm
    all twisted and—
</p>
<p>
    “Boys.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim lets go, jerking his gaze up to see Bruce standing in the entrance to
    the containment area, mouth pulled into a flat line.
</p>
<p>
    Shit.
</p>
<p>
    “Father,” Damian says. Tim feels a burst of satisfaction that he’s winded.
    “Drake started it.”
</p>
<p>
    “That’s a—”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce drags a hand over his face, groaning audibly. “I was trying,” he
    says, “to sleep.”
</p>
<p>
    “Sorry,” Tim mutters, levering himself upright. “Damian started it.”
</p>
<p>
    The demonic midget opens his mouth to protest but is cut off by a single
    look from Bruce.
</p>
<p>
    “I don’t care who started it,” Bruce says. He’s pinching the bridge of his
    nose, brow furrowed. “I just want some damn peace and quiet.”
</p>
<p>
    Time exchanges a quick look with Damian. “Bruce,” he says. “You okay?”
</p>
<p>
    “Fine,” he says, now rubbing circles at his temples.
</p>
<p>
    Tim glances at the one-way glass of Jason’s cell. He hasn’t moved, but the
    tension in his jaw is worse than it was before Tim left, he’s sure. “Uh,
    B,” Tim says. “You might want to rethink that.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce glances up, follows his sight line to Jason. His face hardens as he
    lays eyes on him, making him look a little angry, a little sad.
</p>
<p>
    “I’m right next to him,” he says.
</p>
<p>
    “Not exactly.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce shakes his head, the hardness replaced with obvious frustration. “I
    can’t get any closer.”
</p>
<p>
    “I mean,” Tim says. “You could.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce stares at him, expression indecipherable.
</p>
<p>
    “It’s possible it’s the physical barrier,” Tim points out.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce shakes his head, in disbelief or disagreement, Tim can’t tell. He’s
    shivering, Tim realizes. He’s thrown on a sweatshirt since the last time
    Tim saw him, but he’s shivering.
</p>
<p>
    Oh, fuck.
</p>
<p>
    “Bruce,” he groans, face in his hands. “It’s getting stronger.”
</p>
<p>
    The man frowns at him.
</p>
<p>
    “Damian’s not cold,” Tim says pointedly.
</p>
<p>
    “You do not speak for me, Drake,” Damian hisses.
</p>
<p>
    “I’m not cold,” Tim continues. He gestures at Bruce. “You’re cold.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce just stares at him uncomprehendingly.
</p>
<p>
    For a genius, the man is so fucking dumb sometimes. “You’re cold,” Tim
    says. “Because <em>Jason’s</em> cold. It’s getting stronger.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce shifts backwards, like he’s taking a blow. He looks down at his thick
    sweatshirt, then at Tim’s rolled up sleeves. “Oh.”
</p>
<p>
    There’s a long moment of silence, then Tim glances at the cell and says:
    “…You should probably give him a shirt.”
</p><hr/>
<p>
Jason, once let out of the cell, is just as creepily quiet. And by <em>let out of</em>, Tim means <em>persuaded to leave</em>,
    because it took a minute. A really weird minute.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce insisted on the cuffs but took them off long enough for Jason to take
    a shower and put on some clean clothes. Jason just watches Bruce through
    narrowed eyes the whole time, like he’s expecting it to be some sort of
    trap.
</p>
<p>
    It’s not, and Bruce is flagging within fifteen minutes of Jason’s newfound
    freedom.
</p>
<p>
    Finally, in the greatest show of emotion he’s had so far, Jason snaps: “Go
    to sleep, old man. I’m not going to murder the fuckin’ kids.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce doesn’t deny that that’s what he was thinking. He checks the
    restraints over. He runs diagnostics. He says: “The cuffs will stop you if
    you go near any weapons or try to hurt anyone.”
</p>
<p>
    Then he finally goes to sleep. Damian goes up to the manor, which leaves
    Tim.
</p>
<p>
    “So,” he says awkwardly. “How’ve you been?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason cracks one eye open to give him an unimpressed look. After a minute,
    he says: “You don’t have to babysit me.”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m not,” Tim says quickly.
</p>
<p>
    “Sure.” His tone is as dry as the fucking Sahara.
</p>
<p>
    He’s not babysitting. He’s not. He just—Well he can’t exactly leave Jason
    alone with a sleeping Bruce, now can he? A few years back, it was like his
    mission in life to kill the guy.
</p>
<p>
    Tim hovers awkwardly for a while, then pulls up some case files to look
    over.
</p>
<p>
    “What’d you get out of the injury report, earlier?” Jason says and Tim
    jumps half out of his skin, hand automatically reaching to his non-existent
    utility belt for a non-existent batarang. “Jesus, kid,” Jason says. “Take a
    Valium.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim breathes for a minute, then turns around, expression schooled. “What?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason gives him a look that conveys exactly how much he thinks Tim’s blank
    expression hides. “The injury report. Is that why he let me out?”
</p>
<p>
    “What?” Tim repeats, genuinely confused now.
</p>
<p>
    “Cause I’m hurt,” Jason says. A statement, not a question.
</p>
<p>
    Tim frowns. “Did he not—”
</p>
<p>
    He cuts himself off, but not soon enough: Jason’s zeroed in on the slip in
    an instant. “Did he not what, Replacement?”
</p>
<p>
    Tim doesn’t even try to hide it. “You’ve got some sort of transference
    thing going on. Magic.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason’s brow knits together. “The hell are you talking about?”
</p>
<p>
    “The magical radius or whatever? It had another component. You’re, like,
    projecting onto Bruce.”
</p>
<p>
    “Projecting <em>what?</em>” Jason says, voice low and dangerous enough to
    make Tim think twice. But he designed those cuffs. They’ll knock Jason out
    in a second flat if he starts getting aggressive.
</p>
<p>
    “Pain. Other things, maybe. He was cold, earlier.”
</p>
<p>
    “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Jason snarls, all the stillness from earlier
    gone. “Fuckin’ mind-reading?”
</p>
<p>
    “No,” Tim says calmly. Stay cool. Stay cool. “He’s not reading your mind.
    It’s just physical sensations. Seemingly only negative ones.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason searches his face for a minute and must come away satisfied, because
    he settles down with an audible exhale. Takes a step back. A few deep
    breathes. Finally, he huffs a laugh, rubbing his hands over his face.
    “Timbo, that’s fuckin’ hilarious.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim feels himself frown. He mouths the name with distaste. <em>Timbo</em>.
    That’s a no.
</p>
<p>
    “Seriously,” Jason is saying. “The first time he beats the shit outta me
    in, what, a year? And he immediately gets hit with some crazy
    stop-hitting-yourself voodoo. Fuckin’ karmic.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce what? “Jason,” Tim says. “What’d you just say?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason waves him off, still looking amused.
</p>
<p>
    “When you and Bruce were in the warehouse,” Tim insists. “What happened?”
</p>
<p>
    The older boy frowns slightly, cocks his head like he’s trying to figure
    out Tim’s angle. “We were working different cases, but they must’ve been
    connected. Ended up in the same warehouse.”
</p>
<p>
    “And?” Tim prompts.
</p>
<p>
    Jason scowls. “The fuck do you think happened?”
</p>
<p>
    Tim just stares at him. Why would he be asking, if he knew?
</p>
<p>
    Come on, man.
</p>
<p>
    “He showed up looking for a merc. Found me instead.” Something in his
    expression is hitting Tim as off. He looks…upset? No. It’s not anger. It’s—
“Do you really need me to spell it out?” he snaps, and Tim has it. It’s <em>hurt</em>.
</p>
<p>
    “He showed up looking for a mercenary,” Tim repeats slowly, feeling like
    he’s in over his head. “And you were there. So,” Tim swallows, “he assumed
    you were the mercenary?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason sends him a scalding look. “Yeah, dipshit. Jesus. I thought you were
    supposed to be smart.”
</p>
<p>
Tim barely notices the insult, still trying to wrap his head around <em>beats the shit outta me </em>and <em>do you really need me to spell it out</em>. He can see it playing out,
    now, with a sick sense of clarity. Bruce arrives at the warehouse looking
    for the mercenary he’d been tracking. Big kill count. Several in Gotham.
    Finds Jason, armed, in armor.
</p>
<p>
    That bit, sure. For the life of him, though, he just can’t picture
    Bruce—what, smashing Jason’s head into the wall? That must’ve been what
    happened. It’s a nasty head wound. There were dried blood tracks all down
    his back and side before his shower and he’d listed off his worst injuries
    and <em>then</em> said<em> banged up a little from the explosion</em>.
</p>
<p>
    The concussion, the ribs, none of that was from the explosion or the witch,
    it was from the fight beforehand.
</p>
<p>
    The fight that left Jason beaten bloody and Bruce…
</p>
<p>
    “Why isn’t Bruce hurt?” Tim says suddenly.
</p>
<p>
    The look Jason sends his way can only be described as <em>incredulous</em>.
    “I don’t fight the motherfuckin’ Batman. Not anymore. Do you think I have a
    death wish, Replacement?”
</p>
<p>
    What? “You said—”
</p>
<p>
    “He knocked me around a little,” Jason dismisses. “I didn’t fuckin’ fight
    him.”
</p>
<p>
    Fuck.
</p>
<p>
    “Yo, Replacement.”
</p>
<p>
    Jesus. He wasn’t fighting back.
</p>
<p>
    “Kid,” Jason’s saying. “Snap the fuck out of it.”
</p>
<p>
    “Sorry,” Tim says absently, running through possibilities. Mind control?
    Hush? Maybe—
</p>
<p>
    “Seriously, kid, what the fuck.”
</p>
<p>
    “We’ve got to get him in a cell before he wakes up,” Tim realizes suddenly.
    “He doesn’t know we’re on to him. Maybe he doesn’t even know. Is that why
    he’s so tired? Maybe—”
</p>
<p>
    “Whoa, whoa, slow down, champ,” Jason says, hands extended, palms facing
    out. Alarmed. “What’s going on?”
</p>
<p>
    “You weren’t fighting back,” Tim says impatiently. He tries to move towards
    Bruce, but Jason steps into his path. “Somebody must be controlling him. Or
    maybe it’s not him at all. Shapeshifter, maybe. He wouldn’t—”
</p>
<p>
    “Tim,” Jason says slowly. “I don’t know what’s going through that head of
    yours, but Bruce is fine. He’s just taking a nap.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason, you’re not listening—”
</p>
<p>
    Tim’s frustration grows as Jason herds him away from Bruce, back towards
    the computer.
</p>
<p>
    “He’s dangerous—”
</p>
<p>
    “Bruce is fine,” Jason repeats. Tim thinks he’s trying to be soothing.
    “Everything’s fine. Just breathe.”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m—” <em>fucking breathing</em> he means to say, but he runs out of air.
</p>
<p>
    “That’s it. Come on, man. Deep breathes. Slow.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim breathes. “Fuck.”
</p>
<p>
    “You’re okay.”
</p>
<p>
    “Fuck,” he says again, then drops his head into his hands. “Is he still
    out?”
</p>
<p>
    “Like a light.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim opens his eyes. Jason’s crouched in front of his chair, looking less
    and less worried as time goes on and more and more uncomfortable.
</p>
<p>
    “Do you want, uh,” he says, “water or something?”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason, we have to get him in a cell. For his own—”
</p>
<p>
    Jason’s frowning. “Tim,” he says. “No offense, but the fuck are you
    smoking?”
</p>
<p>
    What? Tim stares at him for a minute. “I’m not crazy.”
</p>
<p>
    “Not saying you are,” Jason says. “Just…high?”
</p>
<p>
    Tim scowls.
</p>
<p>
    “Look, kid, I think you misunderstood something.”
</p>
<p>
    “I didn’t,” Tim says. Did he? “Bruce, or whoever the hell he is, found you
    in the warehouse, thought you were the mercenary he was looking for,
    snapped, and beat the shit out of you.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason’s forehead wrinkles slightly. He looks baffled. “Why are you—What are
    you worried about, here?”
</p>
<p>
Tim stares at him. “Jason,” he says. “You weren’t fighting back, and he <em>beat the shit out of you</em>.”
</p>
<p>
    No reaction.
</p>
<p>
    Jesus. Tim thinks he’s going to be sick.
</p>
<p>
    “Listen, Jason,” he says. “I know you haven’t been around in a while, but
    that’s not <em>normal</em>. That’s <em>not Bruce</em>.” He gestures sharply
    to the other end of the cave.
</p>
<p>
    Jason squints at him, head cocked. “I think you maybe need to sleep.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim growls in frustration, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.
Yes, thank you, he does need to sleep, but that’s not the <em>fucking point</em>.
</p>
<p>
    “If it were Bruce, he never would’ve kept hitting you once you were down,”
    Tim says slowly, trying to get the idea through Jason’s thick head. Jesus,
    does he think so little of them these days, that he didn’t even question
    it? Tim pulls his hands away to look at him and has to double take.
</p>
<p>
    What the hell?
</p>
<p>
    Jason is upset. He looks <em>hurt</em> again, under the layers of anger and
    irritation masking it. “Don’t fuck with me, Replacement. Jesus.”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m not—”
</p>
<p>
    “Stop <em>fucking with me</em>,” Jason repeats furiously. “You little
    asshole.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Tim says. “I’m not fucking with you, I—”
</p>
<p>
    The older boy laughs, sharp and mean and angry. He’s standing up now and
    Tim stands, too, to decrease the looming advantage as much as he can. “I
    really thought maybe this wouldn’t be so bad,” he says, the bitterness as
    cutting as any blade. “I thought, hey, family time, you know? Haven’t seen
    anybody for ages.” He shakes his head, jaw clenched tight. “Should’ve
    fuckin’ known.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Tim pleads.
</p>
<p>
    “Put me back in the cage. I’m not listening to this shit.”
</p>
<p>
    “What? No, Jason—”
</p>
<p>
    “Put me back in the goddamn—”
</p>
<p>
“I’m not locking you up! You’re going to stay right there and <em>listen to me</em>, dammit!”
</p>
<p>
    Jason stares at him silently for a minute, then huffs angrily and drops
    himself back into his chair, shoulders hunched defensively.
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Tim tries. No response. “Jason, come on.”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m not playing your games, dipshit. Let it go.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Tim pleads, eyes darting across the room to make sure Bruce is
    still asleep. “I’m not playing games. This is serious.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason stares at Tim for a minute, then exhales, and all the anger seems to
    melt away. “I know he wouldn’t do that to you,” Jason says after a long
    moment. He’s staring at the floor. He looks tired. Sad, maybe. “Is that
    what you wanted? You win. Ha ha.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Tim tries again, but he doesn’t know what to say, how to get
    through to him. It’s like he’s not listening to a goddamn word that comes
    out of Tim’s mouth.
</p>
<p>
    “I’m really not in the mood,” Jason says, hollow. Almost brittle. “How
    about a raincheck.”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m not—”
</p>
<p>
    Jason growls, but it sounds less angry and more…wounded. Vulnerable.
    “What’s your goal, here? You trying to get me angry enough to throw a
    punch? I ain’t dumb. I know what these hunks of metal are for.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Tim says. “That’s not—"
</p>
<p>
    “I get it, alright?” he says. “He likes you better. Is that what you want
    me to say? He doesn’t hit you because—what? Because you’re better than me?
    Because you’re not a murderer? Tell me what you want me to say so you’ll
    leave me the fuck alone.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim can’t stop staring. “Jason,” he says finally. “Please. I’m not trying
    to get you to say anything. He—He would never do that to you, do you hear
me? What happened last night, that wasn’t him, that was someone—<em>something</em> else. We’ve just gotta—”
</p>
<p>
    Jason’s face twists and he jerks to his feet. “Fuck this,” he says, turns,
    and just walks away.
</p>
<p>
    Towards Bruce.
</p>
<p>
    Fuck. Oh, fuck.
</p>
<p>
    Tim goes after him, but he realized too late and—
</p>
<p>
    “Wake the fuck up, old man,” Jason says and Bruce jerks back into
    consciousness. “I’m tired of my playdate. Put me back in the goddamn cage.”
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Hey, Dick,” Tim says into the phone, shooting for casual.</p>
<p>“Tim? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” </p>
<p>Maybe he needs to work on his aim.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's finals season, friends, and I'm swamped, but I've been reading all the comments and will try to respond to them all once life settles down a bit. Couple quick PSAs:<br/>1) This story is 95% finished already, I'm mostly just editing at this point. Planning on updating about once a week, looking like it's going to be ~6 chapters.<br/>2) God knows I've read and enjoyed my fair share of Bruce Wayne is an Asshole, Post-RHATO #25 stories, but just so everyone knows, this isn't one of them. This version of Bruce fucked up really bad and hurt people he never should have touched, but he loves the shit out of his kids. Shitty reminder: just because someone loves you does not mean they won't fuck you up, accidentally or otherwise.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
    Jason goes back into the cell one sweatshirt richer than he left it and Tim
    goes to his old room upstairs, telling maybe-Bruce he’s spending the night.
</p>
<p>
    Then, like a snot-nosed version of himself in his first year as Robin, he
    calls Dick.
</p>
<p>
    “Hey, Tim. What’s up?”
</p>
<p>
    Tim breathes for a second, collecting his thoughts. He’s not crazy. He’s
    not crazy.
</p>
<p>
    He’s not crazy.
</p>
<p>
    “Hey, Dick,” he says, shooting for casual.
</p>
<p>
    “Tim? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
</p>
<p>
    Maybe he needs to work on his aim. “Uh. Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I’m good. There’s just—there’s just something
    I’d like a second opinion on?”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay,” Dick says slowly. “What’s up?”
</p>
<p>
    Tim closes his eyes. “I promise I’m not crazy.”
</p>
<p>
    “Of course.”
</p>
<p>
    Something about the way Dick says those two words lights a spark of old
    anger in Tim. “So you’re going to believe me this time?” he snaps.
</p>
<p>
    Dick inhales on the other end of the line. “Tim,” he says, sounding so
    heartbroken Tim can’t stand to hear what he’s going to say next.
</p>
<p>
    “Forget I said that. It’s not important. I think there’s something going on
    with Bruce.”
</p>
<p>
    “Tim—”
</p>
<p>
    “I said, forget it. We have bigger problems.”
</p>
<p>
    Dick is quiet for a minute, then takes a breath. Tim can almost hear the
    smile getting plastered on. “What, is he moping again? He’ll get over—”
</p>
<p>
    “No,” Tim cuts him off. “No, it’s—I have reason to believe he’s not acting
    like himself.”
</p>
<p>
    “Uh,” Dick says after a minute. “I think you should maybe start at the
    beginning. What happened?”
</p>
<p>
    “Right.” Tim exhales slowly. “I’ve got two accounts, one from Bruce and one
    from Jason and—”
</p>
<p>
    “<em>Jason?!</em>”
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah, it’s—”
</p>
<p>
    “He's back in Gotham? Are you okay? Is Damian okay? Did he—"
</p>
<p>
    “Dick, calm down. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s—Just let me explain?”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay.” Dick’s voice echoes over the line, worried. “Okay, yeah.”
</p>
<p>
    “Bruce says he was tracking that mercenary, White Phantom, that’s been
    taking hits in Gotham and the trail led to a warehouse in New York. When he
    arrived, Jason was in the warehouse. He confronted him, determined he
    wasn’t a threat, and that’s when the real Phantom showed up and started
    throwing magic around. The warehouse was full of crates of some sort of
    experimental energy cells Jason was tracking and when one of the crates got
    hit with Phantom’s magic, it exploded and both Bruce and Jason lost
    consciousness. When they woke up, Phantom was gone, but they were under
    some sort of spell that doesn’t let them get more than ten yards or so
    apart.”
</p>
<p>
    “And Jason’s version?”
</p>
<p>
    “The same, except Jason says that Bruce attacked him without provocation.”
</p>
<p>
    “I wish I could say I’m surprised, Tim, but those two haven’t spent longer
    than ten minutes together without brawling in years.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason says he didn’t fight back.” Silence. “He says Bruce didn’t stop.”
</p>
<p>
    “And you believe him?”
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah.” Tim swallows. “Dick, Bruce doesn’t have a scratch on him and Jason
    looks like he went toe-to-toe with Deathstroke. And I don’t think—” Tim
    stops for a second, breathes. “I don’t know why he’d lie. He wasn’t trying
    to get anything out of it. He was acting like I was crazy for being worried
    about it, and then he thought I was messing with him or something, I don’t
    know.” Tim swallows. “I told him that Bruce would never do that, that he
    wouldn’t <em>keep going</em> if Jason wasn’t fighting back, and he just
    kept saying not to worry about it, that Bruce was fine and it wasn’t a big
    deal, so I kept pushing—” Tim exhales, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
    “He was angry and upset and—I don’t know, but he wasn’t lying.”
</p>
<p>
    The line is silent for a long moment, then Dick says: “How bad is he hurt?”
</p>
<p>
    “Pretty bad.” Tim closes his eyes. “Dick, is it possible somebody or
    something is controlling Bruce? Or maybe—maybe it’s not even him?”
</p>
<p>
    “Shapeshifter?”
</p>
<p>
    “I don’t know. I just can’t—I keep trying to picture it, trying to imagine
    Bruce just—just smashing Jason’s head against a wall and I just—I can’t,
    Dick. He <em>loves</em> Jason, how could he—”
</p>
<p>
    “It’s okay, it’s okay, Tim,” Dick says. “We’ll figure it out. It’s going to
    be okay.”
</p>
<p>
    “I was going to start looking into it, but I’m at the manor and—”
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah, probably not a good idea to investigate a guy from inside his own
    house.” Dick’s quiet for a bit. “I’ll go to the Clocktower. Get Babs’ help
    looking into it. Discretely.”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay,” Tim says. “Okay, yeah.”
</p>
<p>
    “Tim,” Dick says, hesitant. “I know you and Damian—Well. I know, but can
    you—can you just keep an eye on him until we figure this out?”
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah,” Tim says immediately. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. I’ll stay at the
    manor for now.”
</p>
<p>
    “Thanks, Tim, that’s—Thanks.”
</p>
<p>
    “Of course.”
</p>
<p>
    “Be careful,” Dick warns. “Lie low. I’ll let you know when I’ve got
    something.”
</p>
<p>
    “Got it.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim tosses his phone onto the bedside table and flops on top of the bed.
    This is so fucked up. He’s itching to <em>do something</em>, but he can’t
    risk tipping off maybe-Bruce. There’s nothing he can do but wait for Dick
    and Babs to come up with something. And maybe get some sleep so he’s not
    useless when they do.
</p>
<p>
    He pulls up the cave’s security feeds on his phone and does a quick check:
</p>
<p>
    Not in the cave, so he’s probably in his room. Drawing or reading or
    something.
</p>
<p>
    Jason’s back in position in the corner of the cell, not asleep.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce is lying on the floor outside the cell door, probably asleep.
</p>
<p>
    Tim sets his phone alarm to go off if there’s motion in the containment
    area, then passes the fuck out.
</p><hr/>
<p>
    The pain in his head spikes as soon as the cell door slides shut behind him
    and Jason grits his teeth. He settles into the corner silently and prepares
    for the long haul.
</p>
<p>
    Whatever the spell is, it’ll wear off eventually.
</p>
<p>
    He tries for meditation but is promptly pulled out of it when the pain
    ratchets up a few more notches, high enough it takes his breath away.
</p>
<p>
    Fuck.
</p>
<p>
    A pained grunt escapes his clenched teeth, coming out raw and
    half-strangled.
</p>
<p>
    <em>Fuck.</em>
</p>
<p>
    And then, as quickly as it spiked, it drops again. Bruce must’ve thought
    better about leaving the containment area.
</p>
<p>
    Whatever.
</p>
<p>
    As long as there’s a wall between them, Jason’s fine. It would be a hell of
    a lot nicer if the door locked from <em>his</em> side, but it doesn’t look
    like that’s an option.
</p>
<p>
    Jesus, he wishes he’d never agreed to track down those fucking energy
    cells. After this, he’s never working on the east coast again. Maybe he’ll
    set up in Chicago. Detroit? As long as it’s far away from Bruce and his
    fucking asshole kids, he doesn’t give a shit.
</p>
<p>
    Just thinking about the replacement makes his blood boil. What the fuck was
    the purpose of that shit? He put on the panicked kid act, got Jason to get
    in close and drop his guard, and then <em>bam.</em> Straight for the
    motherfuckin’ jugular.
</p>
<p>
    Jesus.
</p>
<p>
    He hasn’t even been shitty to the kid lately.
</p>
<p>
    Jason closes his eyes and tries not to think about it, but it just keeps
    playing in his head over and over.
</p>
<p>
Tim looking up at him, all wide-eyed and innocent. <em>He would never do that to you, do you hear me?</em>
</p>
<p>
    Jesus <em>Christ.</em>
</p>
<p>
    Jason’s not a nice person, he’s not even a <em>good</em> person, and he
    can’t even imagine saying that shit to someone. He must not be worse at
    judging people than he’d thought, ‘cause in a family full of dicks, he’d
    thought the replacement was the <em>least</em> shitty.
</p>
<p>
    Maybe he’s not as over the whole attempted murder thing as Jason thought.
</p>
<p>
    Fuck.
</p>
<p>
    Jason knocks his temple against the wall, the burst of pain clearing his
    head for a second.
</p>
<p>
    He’s so fucking tired, but the chances of managing more than a minute or
    two of sleep right now are next to zero. He’s too keyed up.
</p>
<p>
    Hopefully, this dumbass spell wears off fucking <em>quick.</em>
</p><hr/>
<p>
    Dick stares at the phone for a few minutes after the call ends, thinking.
</p>
<p>
    What are the facts?
</p>
<p>
    Fact one: someone beat the shit out of Jason. That’s not easy thing to do.
    Dick can count on one hand the number of non-metas that could manage it,
    and Bruce is one of them.
</p>
<p>
    Fact two: Bruce is unhurt.
</p>
<p>
    Fact three: Jason claims Bruce did it and Tim doesn’t think he’s lying.
</p>
<p>
    Which pretty much means Bruce did it. Tim’s not easy to fool and Jason’s
    never been an exceptionally talented liar.
</p>
<p>
    Dick runs a hand through his hair. Tim is so sure that something’s going on
    with Bruce, that he’s not in control, but Dick—
</p>
<p>
    Well. It’s not like Bruce hasn’t struggled with knowing when to stop in the
    past. Just thinking about the possibility makes Dick feel ill, though.
    Tim’s words keep ringing in his head.
</p>
<p>
    <em>—smashing—</em>
</p>
<p>
    He doesn’t want to believe Bruce would go that far, but he can’t rule it
    out.
</p>
<p>
    <em>—Jason’s head—</em>
</p>
<p>
    Babs will know what happened, or at least know how to find out.
</p>
<p>
    <em>—against the wall—</em>
</p>
<p>
    Dick swallows back nausea.
</p>
<p>
    He goes through the motions of the rest of his shift, taking time to get
    his next two covered before he clocks out and books it towards his
    apartment. He hails Babs on the way.
</p>
<p>
    “Evening, Nightwing.”
</p>
<p>
    “Hey, O.”
</p>
<p>
    “Early patrol? No one else will be out for hours.”
</p>
<p>
    “Uh,” Dick says. “There’s a bit of a situation. I need some intel.”
</p>
<p>
    “On?”
</p>
<p>
    “Is this line secure?”
</p>
<p>
    Babs scoffs. “Seriously?”
</p>
<p>
    “Seriously,” he presses. “Who could be listening?”
</p>
<p>
    There’s a pause, and then: “Now? Not a soul on Earth.”
</p>
<p>
    “How about in orbit?”
</p>
<p>
    “Nope, just me and you. And maybe Red Robin.”
</p>
<p>
    “Not B?”
</p>
<p>
    “No.” Another pause. “Why?”
</p>
<p>
    “Something’s going on. It looks like Red Hood and B fought and it went
    south fast.”
</p>
<p>
    “So, situation normal, then?”
</p>
<p>
    “No.” Dick pauses. “Maybe. I’m not sure. Accessing cowl footage still sends out a teamwide alert, yeah?”
</p>
<p>
    “Yep.”
</p>
<p>
    "Just security footage, then. For now."
</p>
<p>
    "When and where?"
</p>
<p>
    “Anytime since Jason came back,” Dick exhales. “I’ll be by in a few hours.
    I’ll explain then.”
</p>
<p>
    “I’ll see what I can find.”
</p>
<p>
    “Thanks, O.”
</p>
<p>
    The line goes dead and Dick accelerates into the next turn, leaning in
    hard. His apartment’s only a few minutes away and he can pack a bag in less
    than five minutes.
</p>
<p>
    Then he’s headed straight to Gotham.
</p><hr/>
<p>
    There’s dust in his mouth and a scream lodged in his throat. He’s rising
    like a thing possessed, coming up spitting, his bloody saliva staining the
    sand. The crowd is roaring. Above, around. They’re everywhere. There’s a
    man—woman—child in front of him and they’re grinning—screaming—bleeding
    into the sand. His hands are on her neck and she’s so young, she’s begging,
    and he doesn’t want to kill her but he has to, he has to, has to, has to.
    He can’t do it again, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t—
</p>
<p>
—his skin is painted sickly green and everything is <em>wrong wrong wrong.</em> His throat is shredding, he’s tearing it apart,
but he can’t stop screaming, he doesn’t want this, didn’t want this. He <em>never wants this</em>—
</p>
<p>
    —do it again, so he snaps her neck, makes it quick, and the roaring grows.
    Is it the crowd, is it the blood rushing through his veins, pouring from
    his skin, staining the sand <em>red red red</em>, how long is it going
    to run red, how long can it stay red, how long until his veins rush with pale,
    poisonous green? How many times can he come back and still claim to be
    alive? How many, how many, how many, how many, how many, how many, how
    many, how many—
</p>
<p>
    The world is the bloody sand under his feet and the roaring in his
    ears <em>(red or green or red or green or green or green or green)</em> and
    there’s nothing else, nothing else, <em>nothing else</em>—
</p>
<p>
    Bruce jerks awake with the taste of blood and stale panic in his mouth,
    head pounding angrily. He takes a steadying breath, blinking the echoes of the nightmare
    away. He’s on the floor, and it takes him a moment to remember why.
</p>
<p>
    Jason. Warehouse. Radius.
</p>
<p>
    Right.
</p>
<p>
    Jason’s exactly where he was when Bruce last looked. It doesn’t look like
    he slept at all. It’s been hours. Bruce is hungry. He opens the door.
</p>
<p>
    Jason’s gaze snaps onto him instantly, perfectly alert.
</p>
<p>
    “Dinner,” Bruce grunts.
</p>
<p>
    “Coffee?” Jason asks.
</p>
<p>
    “There’s coffee.”
</p>
<p>
    “Thank <em>fuck.</em>” Jason levers himself upright and steps out of the
    cell. Bruce gestures for him to lead and Jason’s shoulders tense. He turns
    his back to Bruce anyway.
</p>
<p>
    <em>He remembers where the kitchen is,</em> 
    Bruce thinks, and immediately pushes the thought away. Of course, he
    does. He lived here for years.
</p>
<p>
    Tim’s at the dining room table when they reach it, typing with one hand and
    cradling a cup of coffee in the other.
</p>
<p>
    “Where’s Damian?”
</p>
<p>
    Tim doesn’t look up from his laptop. “He already ate.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce will have to check on him later. After he eats something. He herds
    Jason towards the chair across from Tim, but the older boy digs his heels
    in.
</p>
<p>
    “Nope,” Jason says plainly. “No fuckin’ way.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce just manhandles him into the chair. “Stay.”
</p>
<p>
    “Fuck you,” Jason spits. Bruce isn’t sure if it’s directed at him or Tim
    and, honestly, he’s too tired to care.
</p>
<p>
    He steps into the kitchen and pours a cup of coffee for himself and another
    for Jason, brings them back to the table. Jason hasn’t moved, but he
    doesn’t look happy about it. He’s glaring at Tim like he just killed a
    puppy.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce sets the coffee down wordlessly and goes to make eggs. For dinner. Alfred would be terrible disappointed in him.
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
    They drink their coffee in total silence.
</p>
<p>
    “Where’s Alfred?” Jason asks finally.
</p>
<p>
    “England,” Tim answers carefully. “Visiting relatives.”
</p>
<p>
    “He doesn’t have any relatives in England.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim blinks. “I guess he’s on vacation, then.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce comes back a few minutes later with three plates of scrambled eggs
    and toast. Tim eyes it suspiciously. “…Thanks.”
</p>
<p>
    “Hn.” Bruce gives him a tired look. “I think I can manage eggs, Tim.”
</p>
<p>
    Doubtful. “Of course,” Tim says mildly. He takes a bite. Miraculously,
    they’re not bad. Edible, at least. Maybe Bruce isn’t as bad of a cook as
    Tim thought.
</p>
<p>
    Or maybe he’s not Bruce.
</p>
<p>
    He doesn’t take the cuffs off Jason for him to eat. Good or bad? On one
    hand, Bruce is a naturally suspicious person. On the other, if someone's
    wearing his skin, they have something against Jason.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce doesn’t try to initiate conversation. Tiredness and Bruce’s poor
    social skills, or a lack of interest in humanity?
</p>
<p>
    Impossible to say.
</p>
<p>
    They eat in silence. Bruce nearly falls asleep eight times by the time he
    finishes his eggs, chin propped up over his elbow.
</p>
<p>
    Jason says: “If you’re going to sleep, I’m going back in the cage.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce (or not-Bruce) frowns. “You don’t need to—”
</p>
<p>
    “I’d rather be in there than be jerked around by your asshole kids while
    you take another fuckin’ nap.”
</p>
<p>
    The frown deepens. Bruce glances at Tim questioningly. Tim gives him
    nothing.
</p>
<p>
    “Okay,” Bruce says. “If that’s…what you want.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce stands to clear his plate and Tim waits for him to get out of earshot
    before he whispers: “Listen, Jason, I know you don’t believe me, but we
    really need to keep an eye on him. Something’s going on.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason scowls. “I told you I’m not playing your games.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason.” Tim’s eyes dart to the door to watch for Bruce. “I’m not playing
    games. I promise, I’m being serious.”
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah? So am I. Fuck off.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason. I’m begging you. I can’t tell Damian and Dick’s not here and
    there’s <em>something wrong with Bruce.</em> I know you guys have a rocky
    relationship, but I need you to listen when I tell you that this isn’t
    normal!”
</p>
<p>
    “Fuck you, Drake.”
</p>
<p>
    “Stop being so fucking contrary!” Tim hisses. “Think about the damage he
could do, not just to us, not just to Gotham, but the world. The fucking <em>universe,</em> Jason!”
</p>
<p>
    Jason stares at him for a long moment. “Are you—Fuck.” He stops, frowns.
    “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
</p>
<p>
    “Yes! Jesus, Jason, I’ve been trying to tell you that—”
</p>
<p>
    “Fuck,” Jason swears lowly. He’s got his elbows propped up on the table,
    head in his hands. “Bruce is fine. It’s okay.”
</p>
<p>
    “No,” Tim groans. “No, Jason, you’re not listening—”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m listening,” he says, rubbing at his eyes and then looking up at Tim
    wearily. “You have nothing to worry about. Bruce is fine. You’re fine.”
</p>
<p>
    “Fuck you,” Tim spits. “I’m trying—”
</p>
<p>
    “Baby bird, did you seriously think that was the first time?”
</p>
<p>
    …what.
</p>
<p>
    Jason doesn’t wait for Tim to reboot. “He fuckin’ hates me.” He says it
    like it’s obvious. The sky is blue, the grass is green, my dad fucking
    hates me. “He knocks me around whenever he gets the chance.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim doesn’t understand.
</p>
<p>
    “Listen, kid,” Jason says. “I’m sorry if you’re having some sort of crisis
    right now, but you’re stupid as fuck if you never realized that. I mean,
    come on.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim just shakes his head slowly, but it makes a horrible kind of sense.
    “Why?” he asks. “Why would he do that?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason shrugs minutely. “Don’t fuckin’ ask me. I didn’t do it.”
</p>
<p>
    There’s something on his face that looks like guilt, that looks like Jason
    thinks he knows exactly why Bruce would beat up his own son and Tim opens
    his mouth—
</p>
<p>
    “Didn’t do what?”
</p>
<p>
    —and closes it, flinching at the sound of Bruce’s voice.
</p>
<p>
    “Nothing,” Jason says, gaze still locked on Tim.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce shifts awkwardly, glancing between them. “Do you still want to go
    back in the cell?”
</p>
<p>
    “Nah,” Jason says. “Turns out it was just a misunderstanding.” He stands,
    pushing his chair back, and turns to face Bruce. Whatever he was going to
    say, he must change his mind when he gets a look at the older man, cause
    instead he says: “Are you fuckin’ sick or something? Why do you look half
    dead?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce sighs. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
</p>
<p>
    “Weren’t you just sleeping? Why the fuck are you—” Jason cuts himself off
    abruptly, looking taken aback. “Oh, shit.”
</p>
<p>
    “Hn.”
</p>
<p>
    “Are you fuckin’ serious?”
</p>
<p>
    “Yes.” Bruce eyes him. “How long have you been awake? 48 hours?”
</p>
<p>
    “Fuck you, old man. I’m not—”
</p>
<p>
    “More than 48. 60?”
</p>
<p>
    “Fuck,” Jason breathes, looking alarmed. “Please tell me you didn’t just
    read my mind.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce shakes his head. “Guessed. Feels like about that much.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim just watches silently, struggling to understand.
</p>
<p>
    “How long until we can ditch this thing?” Jason groans. “What if it
    progresses?”
</p>
<p>
    “It already has.” At Jason’s squawk of indignation, Bruce adds: “In the
    beginning, it was just my head. Then my ribs.”
</p>
<p>
    “And now?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce sighs. “Tired. Please sleep.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim eases out of the room and heads upstairs, trying to process what the
    hell just happened.
</p>
<p>
    Fuck.
</p>
<p>
    <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><hr/>
<p>
    Bruce leads them back down to the cave after dinner. Jason figured he’d
    want to sleep in a bed, but it looks like the old man is as paranoid as
    ever.
</p>
<p>
    The bat brat is waiting for them in the cave.
</p>
<p>
    “Father.” The little demon turns his gaze to Jason and sneers. “Todd.”
</p>
<p>
    “Damian,” Bruce replies, sounding old as shit. “Can you not.” He ushers
    Jason towards the medical section of the cave.
</p>
<p>
    The kid puffs up like an angry cat for a minute but shakes it off quick as
    he follows them. “Very well,” he says coolly. “Kent has asked for my
    counsel. He wishes to come to the manor to hear it.”
</p>
<p>
    “You can’t hang out with Jon tonight.”
</p>
<p>
    “I do not <em>hang out</em> with Kent, Father—”
</p>
<p>
    “Damian,” Bruce cuts him off. “Not tonight.”
</p>
<p>
    “Fine,” the kid snaps. “Tomorrow?”
</p>
<p>
    “Maybe.” Bruce guides Jason to a seat, then busies himself with something
    in one of the cabinets.
</p>
<p>
    “Very well.” Damian draws himself up to his full height. “Then I will
    retire for the evening. Goodnight, Father.”
</p>
<p>
    “Goodnight, Damian,” Bruce says. “Don’t forget you have an essay due on
    Tuesday.”
</p>
<p>
    “I will not.” The kid strides away, posture perfect. Jason watches as he
    disappears up the stairs.
</p>
<p>
    “The fuck is wrong with your kid,” he mutters.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce grunts, annoyed. “There’s nothing wrong with Damian.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason rolls his eyes. “Sure, B-man,” he scoffs. “Whatever you say.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce grunts again, and Jason suddenly regrets trying to be condescending
as Bruce turns his way and strides towards him. Mouth dry, he thinks: <em>calm the fuck down</em>, and then Bruce is right in front of him, hands
    reaching towards Jason’s face.
</p>
<p>
    He bats them away with his bound hands, blood roaring in his ears. “What
    the fuck,” he snaps. “Don’t touch me.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce looks confused and Jason wonders all of a sudden exactly how much is
    transferring over. Is it really just pain? Or…
</p>
<p>
    “Just let me look at it,” Bruce is saying, and Jason drags his brain back
    in line.
</p>
<p>
    “Fuck no.”
</p>
<p>
    The older man doesn’t react, just reaches for Jason’s head again.
</p>
<p>
    Jason shoves him back, snarling.
</p>
<p>
    “Hood.” Bruce is talking to him like he’s fucking feral or something, and,
    well, maybe he <em>is,</em> but it riles Jason up anyway. “It’ll just take
    a second.”
</p>
<p>
    “Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” he threatens.
</p>
<p>
    “There’s probably debris in the wound. It’ll get infected.”
</p>
<p>
    “I washed it out in the shower.”
</p>
<p>
    “I want to check.”
</p>
<p>
    “If you’re so concerned, why the fuck did you crack my skull open in the
    first place?”
</p>
<p>
    Silence hangs in the air as Bruce rocks back on his heels, surprise and
    something that looks strangely like guilt on his face.
</p>
<p>
    Jason just scowls and starts to cross his arms over his chest. He aborts
    the motion halfway through, since it’s not really possible when he’s
    wearing fucking <em>promethium cuffs.</em>
</p>
<p>
    “Jason—”
</p>
<p>
    “My skull’s not cracked,” Jason snaps. “I’m fine.”
</p>
<p>
    “Hn.” Bruce eyes him with a level of concern that Jason is <em>not</em> 
    comfortable with. “Can I look at your head now?”
</p>
<p>
Jason deepens his scowls, then shoves away his feelings about Bruce’s hands <em>anywhere fuckin’ near him</em> and thinks it through. It’s not like the
    old bastard would, or maybe even could, make anything worse. He’d literally be
    hurting himself.
</p>
<p>
    “Fine,” he says after a minute. “Make it quick.”
</p>
<p>
    He makes himself sit still while Bruce’s fingers ghost across his skull,
    checking for fractures. When he reaches the wound, he jerks back, hissing
    in pain.
</p>
<p>
    Jason looks at him bemusedly. “You fuckin’ whiner,” he says. “It’s not that
    bad.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce’s expression tightens and Jason thinks he looks pained, but Jason’s
    not feeling any worse at the moment, so who fucking knows. He doesn’t
    comment, though, just starts poking at the gash above Jason’s right ear.
</p>
<p>
    “It needs stitches,” he says quietly. “Just two.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason just grunts. Bruce shuts up and gets back to work, numbing the area
    and pulling out a suturing kit.
</p>
<p>
    When he’s done, he sits back on the stool he pulled up in front of Jason
    and says: “What happened to your hands?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason blinks at him. “What?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce looks uncomfortable. “Your hands. They weren’t damaged when we left
    New York.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason stares at him blankly, trying to come up with something that doesn’t make him
    sound like a headcase.
</p>
<p>
    “When you first came back to Gotham,” Bruce says after a long, awkward
    pause. “I dug up your coffin.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason swallows, still staring.
</p>
<p>
    “I try not to think about it,” Bruce is saying. “But. There was blood and.
    Scratch marks. On—on the inside of the lid.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason sits there looking stupid for a minute, then lurches to his feet.
</p>
<p>
    “Jason—” Bruce says, rising to his feet.
</p>
<p>
“Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that,” Jason snaps. He can’t quite <em>loom.</em> He’s cuffed, for one, and his height never caught up to
    Bruce’s, but he’s gotta be within an inch, so he gives it his best fucking
    shot.
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know what you mean,” Bruce says, standing his ground and still <em>fucking looking at him.</em> It’s not fucking <em>fair</em> that he can
    still make Jason feel like this, that he can see all of his weak spots like
    they’re lit up in fucking neon.
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Bruce says, one palm flat against Jason’s chest, holding him
    against the cot.
</p>
<p>
    Jason’s teeth are bared in a snarl, his pulse is roaring in his ears. He
    swears he can taste the dirt. Feel the grit of it between his teeth. He
    pushes against Bruce’s hand and the cuffs buzz against his wrists in
    warning. “The fuck is it with you and my dead body, anyway?” he snaps.
    “First that shit in Ethiopia, now this?”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason—” Bruce says, and something in his face makes Jason wonder if he
    can find Bruce’s weak spots, too.
</p>
<p>
    “Why do you keep asking me about this, huh? Do you like to think about it,
    is that it?” he pushes and there, the pity drops off Bruce’s face, leaving
    shock and hurt and he should stop but— “Do you stay up at night, dreaming
    about me dead and buried?”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason—” Bruce says sharply, but Jason just keeps going, because he’s a
    fucking garbage person, Jesus <em>Christ</em>—
</p>
<p>
    “Finally ran out of sob story, huh?” Jason hears himself say. “Getting your parents killed isn't enough to maintain your self pity anymore? 
    Have to picture little dead boys in miniature black suits, lying in silk-lined mahogany? Dick's a little tall, but, hey, Tim's small enough still to
    fit in a child-size coffin if you want to go for three out of—”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce’s jaw tightens and he thunders a “Jason!” and shifts forward—
</p>
<p>
    And Jason’s eyes close and his head ducks down and his shoulders hunch and
    the world whites out around him and—
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Bruce says after God knows how long. He’s looking at him again,
    but there’s no pity. His face is blank as marble and Jason should be happy
    (he did it, he won, he got what he wanted), but he’s not.
</p>
<p>
    “Sit down,” Bruce says. “Let me look at your hands.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason sits. Bruce looks over his hands. He sets the bones that Jason broke
    against the inside of the Batmobile’s trunk, then shifts the cuffs up to
    inspect where they wore into his wrists.
</p>
<p>
    Jason swallows. “I didn’t mean that.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce doesn’t answer.
</p>
<p>
    Jason sits quietly as Bruce checks over his ribs, starts bandaging his wrists.
</p>
<p>
    “B,” he says. “I really didn’t mean that shit.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce ties off the bandages neatly, then sighs, sounding
    fucking ancient. He’s silent for a long moment, then says: “Do you remember
    the time Alfred left us alone in the manor for a few days, and you got so
    angry with me you screamed that my parents hated me and it was my fault
    they died?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason winces. Now that he’s reminded him of it, yeah. He remembers. He’d
    kind of tried to bury that particular outburst.
</p>
<p>
    “I don’t even remember why you were upset,” Bruce continues. “Maybe I never
    knew. The next morning, I made breakfast and you threw it on the floor and
    said I was lucky I had money because it was the only reason Alfred didn’t
    drop me off at the nearest fire station after the funeral.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jesus Christ,” Jason exhales harshly. The Pit definitely amplified some
    shit, but, fuck, maybe he was born an asshole.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce looks up to finally meet Jason’s eyes, mouth twisting with a sort of
    grim humor. “I like to think I got pretty good at not taking it
    personally.”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m not a little kid anymore,” Jason says lowly. “And it was a
    fucked up thing to say.”
</p>
<p>
    “Yes,” Bruce says, standing up, “it was.” He puts the roll of gauze back in the
    cupboard, then turns back to Jason. “If we go upstairs, do you think you
    can get any sleep?”
</p><hr/>
<p>
    “Hey,” Dick answers. “I was just about to call—”
</p>
<p>
    “Dick.”
</p>
<p>
    “What’s wrong?” Dick asks, alarm bells ringing at the tone of Tim’s voice.
</p>
<p>
    “Dick, I was wrong.”
</p>
<p>
    “About what, Tim? What’s going on?”
</p>
<p>
    “Are you at the Clocktower?”
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah.” Dick glances over a Babs. She raises a brow in question. “I’m with
    Babs.”
</p>
<p>
    “You need to—” Tim takes a deep breath. “Dick, I think you need to look a
    lot further back than I thought. It’s not—I don’t think we’re looking at a
    mind control situation.”
</p>
<p>
    Dick closes his eyes. “Tim.”
</p>
<p>
    “I think—”
</p>
<p>
    “Tim,” Dick repeats, cutting him off. “It was Bruce.”
</p>
<p>
    “It was Bruce.” Tim’s voice is smaller than Dick’s heard it in a long time.
    “It was Bruce, and it wasn’t the first time.”
</p>
<p>
    Dick glances at the wall of screens showing various confrontations between
    Batman and Red Hood since Jason first came back to Gotham. “Yeah.”
</p>
<p>
    “I was hoping you’d say I was wrong.”
</p>
<p>
    “I wish I could.”
</p>
<p>
    There’s a long pause, and then Tim says: “How did we not notice?”
</p>
<p>
    Dick shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know,” he says. “I never thought he would
    hurt any of you guys.” There's an awkward beat of silence and Dick winces, 
    realizing how that must've—
</p>
<p>
    “…But he’d hurt you?”
</p>
<p>
    Jesus, he never thought he’d be having this conversation. “He’s taken
    things a little too far before,” Dick admits. “But I always thought… Well,
    I’m the oldest. I—” Dick’s voice dies on him.
</p>
<p>
    Tim’s quiet for a beat, then: “He hit me, once. After Selina left him. He
    was angry and I was there and… Well. It’s not like I’m really his kid. Not
    like you or Jason or Damian. Even Cass.”
</p>
<p>
    “Tim,” Dick breathes, closing his eyes. “Tim, no. We’re all—”
</p>
<p>
    “It’s not the same,” Tim interrupts. “You and Jason and Damian, you were
    his kids first, before you were his partners. It wasn't like that for me. I was Robin.
    I wasn't his son.” He says it plain, blunt, like it’s true, like it’s not breaking 
    Dick’s heart.
</p>
<p>
    “Do you trust me?” Dick says.
</p>
<p>
    “More than I trust anyone else.”
</p>
<p>
    Not very reassuring answer. “Then believe me when I say that you are just
as much Bruce’s son as any of us are. In my eyes, yeah, of course, but in <em>Bruce’s,</em> too. Tim, he loves the hell out of you.”
</p>
<p>
    There’s a long pause. Then: “We don’t have time for semantics. We need to focus
    on the situation at hand.”
</p>
<p>
    “Tim—”
</p>
<p>
    “I can’t talk about this right now, Dick.”
</p>
<p>
    Closing his eyes, Dick takes a deep breath and tries to settle his mind a
    bit. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay,” Tim repeats. “So, what are we going to do?”
</p>
<p>
    Dick doesn’t know. “Babs and I have been collecting evidence. We’ll—We’ll
    talk to him. As a family.”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay,” Tim says slowly. “What should I do until then?”
</p>
<p>
    “Just hang tight. Babs and I will come over once we’ve got this all
    compiled, and we’ll sort it out.”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay.”
</p>
<p>
    “Call me if they start fighting, or—Just call me. If you need to.”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay.”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay.” Dick exhales. “I’m sorry, Tim. This sucks.”
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah. I’ll see you soon.”
</p>
<p>
    “Yep.”
</p>
<p>
    Dick drops his head into his hands once the call ends.
</p>
<p>
    “So you’re going to need those medical records, then?” Babs asks.
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah,” Dick says, hands muffling his voice. “Whatever you can find.”
</p>
<p>
    “It’ll take a few minutes. Looks like they were trying take a random path.
    Take a look at this in the meantime.”
</p>
<p>
    Dick turns to the screen she gestures to and immediately wishes he hadn’t.
</p>
<p>
    “Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck, Babs, when was this?”
</p>
<p>
    “After Jason shot Penguin,” Babs says, voice flat. “Which, I should also
    mention, was not a kill shot.”
</p>
<p>
    “Babs,” Dick says incredulously. “He shot him in the <em>face.</em> It’s a
    miracle he survived.”
</p>
<p>
    “He shot him in the face with a <em>blank,</em>” Babs corrects. “I checked
    Gotham General’s records.”
</p>
<p>
    Dick closes his eyes. Fuck. “You’re telling me Bruce did that in retaliation for
    a non-lethal injury?”
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah," Babs says grimly. "You should probably watch this part.”
</p>
<p>
    Dick opens his eyes.
</p>
<p>
    On the screen, Jason’s on his knees. Bruce is holding him up by the front
    of his jacket and nailing him in the face with a nasty right hook. The
    helmet is long gone, shattered into a million tiny pieces that are now
    scattered across the rooftop. Jason’s hands are at his sides. Open. Limp.
    His head lolls as Bruce winds up for another hit.
</p>
<p>
    “Is he even conscious?” Dick asks quietly.
</p>
<p>
    “Hard to say. Seems like he’s fading in and out for most of the last bit.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce hits him again. “I can’t watch this,” Dick manages. “I can’t—”
</p>
<p>
    But he has to. How much has he missed, by looking away?
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“B,” Jason says. “Are you okay?”</p><p>Bruce just stares at him. Thinks of the rooftop. Thinks of hit after hit landing. Of Arsenal appearing and spiriting Jason away. No. He was fine. He wasn’t that hurt.</p><p>“Bruce,” Jason is saying. “Come on, man, snap out of it.”</p><p>“Did he have to take you to a hospital?” Bruce blurts out.</p><p>Jason stares at him, incredulous.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Missed a week due to travel, whoops. PSA for this chapter: Jason's opinions in this are not necessarily healthy. He's trying to cope with a shitty situation and this is the best he's got at the moment.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
    The room Bruce gives him to sleep in is not his old one, and he can’t
    decide if he’s glad for it or not. It’s bigger than his old room, and right
    next to Bruce’s. It’s the only one within the radius.
</p><p>
    He tries to sleep at first, but he can’t settle down. Maybe it’s the room.
    Maybe it’s the spell. Maybe it’s that Bruce is on the other side of his
    wall.
</p><p>
    He doesn’t sleep.
</p><p>
    Eventually, there’s a knock on the door.
</p><p>
    Jason hauls himself up from his position in the back corner of the room and
    opens the door. “What?”
</p><p>
    “If you’re not sleeping,” Bruce says, eyes barely focusing. “We’re going
    back down to the cave. I have a case to work.”
</p><p>
    Jason narrows his eyes and looks at the older man critically. “Go the fuck
    to bed, old man. You look like you’re about to keel over.”
</p><p>
    Bruce scrubs a hand over his face tiredly. “Can’t sleep,” he grunts.
</p><p>
    Jason stares at him for a while, thinking, then opens the door wider and
    steps aside so Bruce can enter.
</p><p>
    The older man just blinks.
</p><p>
    “Jesus,” Jason swears, then tugs Bruce through the door. “It’s probably the
    distance or the wall.” He shoves Bruce towards the unused bed. “Sleep.”
</p><p>
    Bruce stares at the bed. “It’s not going to do anything if you don’t sleep,
    too.” He turns to look at Jason. “We can put a mattress on my floor.”
</p><p>
    Jason closes his eyes and huffs a breath. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and starts
    pulling the mattress off the bed. They drag it into Bruce’s room together,
    blankets and all.
</p><p>
    By the time Jason flops down on top of the covers, Bruce is already asleep.
</p><p>
    Jason peers through the dark at the ceiling. He dozes off occasionally and
    wakes up after a few minutes with his heart in his throat every time.
</p><p>
    It’s a long night.
</p><p>
    A couple hours after dawn, Jason calls it.
</p><p>
    “B-man,” he says, nudging Bruce’s shoulder. “Come on, wake up. I’m
    starving.”
</p><p>
    Bruce groans, but slowly blinks awake.
</p><p>
    “B, come on. I need food.” And coffee. He really needs some fucking coffee.
</p><p>
    “How long…?”
</p><p>
    “Like twelve hours. You slept, like, literally the entire day,” Jason
    answers, impatient. “Come <em>on</em>.”
</p><p>
    Bruce rolls out of the bed and scrubs a hand through his hair.
</p><p>
    Jason has a reality-altering moment when he realizes that’s <em>gray </em>
    in Bruce’s hair. Like, a lot of it.
</p><p>
    “The fuck,” he says softly, hands hovering awkwardly between them as he
    aborts reaching out to touch the gray hairs. He steps back abruptly,
    scowling. “When the hell did you get so old?”
</p><p>
    Bruce just sends him a long-suffering sort of stare.
</p><p>
    Yeah, that’s fair. “Come on,” Jason says. “Coffee.”
</p><p>
    They trudge downstairs and Jason busies himself in the kitchen while Bruce
    slumps in one of the chairs. He makes a pot of coffee and starts cracking
    eggs for omelets. There’s not enough in the fridge to make anything else.
    It’s slow going, with his wrists locked together, but he manages.
</p><p>
    When the coffee’s done, he pours two cups and sets one on the table near
    where Bruce’s head is buried in his arms. The smell must wake him up a bit,
    cause his eyes are bleary but open when Jason drops two plates on the table
    and slides into the seat across from Bruce.
</p><p>
    ------
</p><p>
    They sit in silence for a while, just eating. Bruce is feeling a little
    more awake, with some food in him, so he brings it up.
</p><p>
    “You probably don’t want to talk about it, but—”
</p><p>
    Jason shakes his head. “It’s fine. Honestly, I—” He cuts himself off with a
    shrug, shoving a bite of egg in his mouth. “Whatever you want to ask.
    Shoot.”
</p><p>
    “There’s a gap, in the timeline I pieced together. There’s the graveyard,
    and then the Red Hood, and nothing in between.”
</p><p>
    Jason grimaces. “Yeah, that makes sense.” He takes a long sip of coffee,
    then glances at Bruce. “After I crawled out of the coffin, I went looking
    for you, but I was all fucked up, wasn’t thinking straight. Guess that’s
    what happens when a fuckin’ lunatic takes a crowbar to your head.”
</p><p>
    Bruce feels like he’s going to be sick. “You were looking for me?”
</p><p>
    Jason looks at him, scrutinizing. “Yeah. Was at a hospital and everything.
    I don’t really remember it. I know I asked for you, but I got no idea what
    I actually <em>said</em>. Bruce Wayne? Batman? <em>Dad?</em>” He shakes his
    head. “Anyway. I left eventually. Lived on the streets. The League found me
    after a while. Talia’s people.”
</p><p>
    Bruce chokes. “<em>What?</em>”
</p><p>
    “Thought you knew that bit already.”
</p><p>
    “<em>No</em>.”
</p><p>
    He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. Picks at his eggs. “Whatever. Talia kept
    me around for a while, I don’t know why. I don’t pretend to understand her.
    Eventually, Ra’s got tired of it, or at least that’s what Talia says, and
    was gonna make her…send me away? Kill me? Honestly, no idea. It’s all a bit
    vague. Again—” he gestures to his head. “—brain damage. Plus, like, none of
    my bones were <em>not </em>broken, so I guess I was in a lot of pain. I
    don’t know. Anyway, Talia played along and then tossed me in his Lazarus
    Pit when he wasn’t looking.”
</p><p>
    “His Lazarus Pit?” Bruce manages.
</p><p>
    “Yeah.” Jason cocks his head. “You didn’t know?”
</p><p>
    Bruce shakes his head, wordless. There’s something like hope blooming in
    his chest.
</p><p>
    “B,” Jason says, incredulous. “How? My eyes used to <em>glow green</em>.”
</p><p>
    “Not that I ever saw.”
</p><p>
    “Well, they did.” Jason sips at his coffee. “Tim saw them,” he offers.
    “At—at the Tower.”
</p><p>
    The silence stretches out uncomfortably after that.
</p><p>
    “I’m not going to hurt him,” Jason says suddenly, “not again. It’s not—I
    don’t—” He ducks his head, clears his throat. “He’s a good kid.”
</p><p>
    Bruce knows he’s staring, but he’s having trouble processing. “Why did you
    do it, then?”
</p><p>
    “Honestly?” He shrugs half-heartedly. “I don’t know. I was angry. More than
    angry. I don’t—” Jason glances up at Bruce quick and then back at the
    table. “I know it’s no excuse. I’m not trying to—to excuse anything. But
    those first few years after the Pit are… patchy. There are whole stretches
    that are just…blurred.”
</p><p>
    “Blurred?”
</p><p>
    “Yeah, I don’t know,” Jason says, forced levity in his tone. “It felt
    sometimes like I was in the car, but not in the driver’s seat. Like I was
    sort of watching the road but mostly playing with Legos in the backseat.
    I’m missing some chunks of time. And others are, well. Blurred. Out of
    focus.”
</p><p>
    Oh. That’s—
</p><p>
    “I remember the night at the Tower, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
    Jason’s gaze is fixed firmly on the coffee cup in his hands. “And the night
    we fought. I’m missing some details, but,” he gestures at his head, “most
    of it’s in there.”
</p><p>
    “Okay,” Bruce says slowly.
</p><p>
    Jason huffs a little, surprised, and glances up at Bruce. “Okay?”
</p><p>
    Bruce nods slowly. “You regret it?”
</p><p>
    “Hurting the kid? Every goddamn day.” Jason shifts in his seat, rolling the
    mug between his hands.
</p><p>
    “Okay.” Bruce exhales. “You trained with the League, then?”
</p><p>
    “Yeah, at Nanda Parbat for a while, then Talia sent me on a world tour.”
    Jason swallows. “Then back at Nanda Parbat, after the shit with Joker.”
</p><p>
    “You went back to them?”
</p><p>
    Jason’s jaw tenses. “Not exactly. Talia wasn’t impressed with my
    performance.”
</p><p>
    A flash of remembered pain hits Bruce out of nowhere and a low, startled
    noise escapes from his throat. He looks up at Jason, concerned, but he’s
    already moving away, rising abruptly and heading for the kitchen with his
    empty mug. He looks—
</p><p>
    Well, Bruce isn’t sure at this point how much of what he’s getting is
    anything Jason’s actually showing. He’s getting better at untangling the
    emotions from his own, but he’s unsure now.
</p><p>
    “You sure there’s not a way to get rid of this?” he asks when he comes
    back, looking tired. The mug’s only half full. It must have been the last
    of the pot.
</p><p>
    “Not that I know of.”
</p><p>
    “Well, it’s in my head, right?” He takes a big gulp of his coffee. “So if I
    just—” he makes one hand into the shape of a gun and aims at his head.
    “Done, right?”
</p><p>
    “Jason,” Bruce says seriously, horror clawing at his throat. “Don’t joke
    about that.”
</p><p>
    Jason huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t sound like he was joking. He’s looking
    down into his cup as he swirls the last of the coffee around the bottom and
    something in his expression makes Bruce nervous.
</p><p>
    “Jason,” Bruce says carefully. “Are you okay—”
</p><p>
    Jason’s mug shatters and Bruce flinches at the sharp stab of pain in his
    own hands, the spike of anxiety thrumming in his veins. There’s blood on
    the table.
</p><p>
    Bruce stands quickly, finding a cloth. By the time he comes back, Jason’s
    resting his forehead on the edge of the table, hands held over his empty
    plate to catch the blood.
</p><p>
    It looks a little like he’s praying.
</p><p>
    “It’s fine,” he says, when he hears Bruce walk in. “Sorry.”
</p><p>
    “Don’t worry about it. Can I…?” Bruce reaches for his hands.
</p><p>
    Jason shrugs, barely moving, as Bruce turns his bleeding hand over and
    starts pulling out shards. “Sorry,” he repeats. “I tried, but I can’t—”
</p><p>
    He can’t reach. Not with the cuffs on.
</p><p>
    Bruce pulls the last shard out and wraps the damp towel around his hand.
</p><p>
    Jason scrubs a hand over his face awkwardly, trying not to disturb the
    bandages. He rubs his eyes. Bruce wonders if he’s slept at all since he got
    here.
</p><p>
    He’ll ask later. Not now.
</p><p>
    Jason sighs heavily.
</p><p>
    They finish the rest of their breakfast in silence.
</p><p>
    ------
</p><p>
    Jason falls asleep on the couch in Bruce’s office while he works.
</p><p>
    He scrubs at his eyes when he wakes up, not feeling any better. He takes
    stock of the room and is startled to see Bruce looking back at him, work
    abandoned, when he looks behind the desk.
</p><p>
    His expression is unreadable, but something about it unnerves Jason. “Fuck
    off,” he snaps, and lies back down, curling around so his back is facing
    the desk.
</p><p>
    After a while, he falls back asleep to the sound of typing.
</p><p>
    The next time he wakes up, there’s a hand gripping his shoulder tightly. He
    lashes out blindly, but his hands are still cuffed and—
</p><p>
    Bruce grunts and lets go when Jason’s hands hit his chest. The cuffs jolt,
    weak, but enough to make Jason’s muscles seize for a second.
</p><p>
    He tries to calm down, levering himself upright and keeping Bruce firmly in
    his field of view. “Christ, B. Don’t fuckin’ do that.”
</p><p>
    The older man rises to his feet as Jason talks. He looks at Jason, focused.
</p><p>
    “I’m not gonna apologize,” Jason scoffs. “That was your own damn—”
</p><p>
    “Jason,” he says, looking pained. “You were screaming.”
</p><p>
    Oh. “Sorry.”
</p><p>
    “Don’t—” Bruce swallows. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s—Are you okay?”
</p><p>
    Jason stares at him for a moment. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I’m good.”
</p><p>
    “Okay,” Bruce says, sounding uncertain. He shifts awkwardly, then adds:
    “Are you hungry?”
</p><p>
    They go down to the kitchen.
</p><p>
    Bruce makes sandwiches and Jason doesn’t bother to ask what’s in them, just
    eats.
</p><p>
    “You’ve lost weight,” Bruce says suddenly.
</p><p>
    Jason looks up at him, brow furrowed. “What?”
</p><p>
    “Since the last time you were in Gotham,” he explains. “You’ve lost weight.
    I didn’t notice before.”
</p><p>
    Jason stares at him, flabbergasted. “Yeah,” he says. “I lost weight.”
</p><p>
    “Are you okay?”
</p><p>
    He can’t believe they’re having this conversation. He just wants to eat his
    sandwich in peace. “I’m fine.”
</p><p>
    “Were you sick?”
</p><p>
    “No.”
</p><p>
    “Did you switch up your training routine, then or—”
</p><p>
    “Jesus, B,” Jason finally snaps. “I was in the fucking hospital for a while
    last year. I lost some muscle mass. I haven’t put it all back on yet. Will
    you lighten up?”
</p><p>
    The older man frowns, looking concerned. “Why were you in the hospital last
    year?”
</p><p>
    “Bruce,” Jason says, exasperated. “Why the fuck do you think?”
</p><p>
    ------
</p><p>
    Bruce doesn’t understand. He opens his mouth, about to ask for a real
    answer, then closes it.
</p><p>
    Jason must see something on his face, because he’s frowning now, and Bruce
    can feel <em>concern</em> of all things bleeding through the link.
</p><p>
    “B,” he says. “Are you okay?”
</p><p>
    Bruce just stares at him. Thinks of the rooftop. Thinks of hit after hit
    landing. Of Arsenal appearing and spiriting Jason away. No. He was fine. He
    wasn’t that hurt.
</p><p>
    “Bruce,” Jason is saying. “Come on, man, snap out of it.”
</p><p>
    “Did he have to take you to a hospital?” Bruce blurts out.
</p><p>
    Jason stares at him, incredulous.
</p><p>
    “After the fight. Harper. Did he have to—”
</p><p>
    “He took me to a safehouse,” Jason cuts him off. “The hospital came later.”
</p><p>
    Bruce doesn’t understand. “How did you get hurt then?” Jason’s aggravation
    is growing, but Bruce has to know. “Who—”
</p><p>
    “Will you just drop it?” Jason snaps.
</p><p>
    “Jason, I need to know who—”
</p><p>
    “You did!” Jason yells.
</p><p>
    Silence.
</p><p>
Bruce swallows. He stares at Jason, hurt and anger and    <em>stop talking about this</em> leaking into Bruce’s mind.
</p><p>
    “Jesus,” Jason swears, shoving another bite of sandwich into his mouth.
    “Roy took me to a safehouse and tried to wait it out, but the medic he
    brought in couldn’t fix everything.”
</p><p>
    “I would’ve known, I monitor the hospitals in Gotham—”
</p><p>
    “We weren’t in Gotham,” Jason huffs. He’s irritated. “Roy had moved us at
    least twice by that point. I think the first hospital was in Arizona or
    something.”
</p><p>
    “Why were you—” Bruce is so confused. “Arizona?”
</p><p>
    “Don’t fucking ask me,” Jason snaps. “I was unconscious. I don’t fuckin’
    know how he picked the route.”
</p><p>
    Bruce shakes his head. That’s not what he meant. He— “Gotham has some of
    the best hospitals in the world. Why would you leave?”
</p><p>
Jason looks at him carefully. “Bruce,” he says finally. “We didn’t just    <em>leave</em>. We were running away.”
</p><p>
    One beat. Two.
</p><p>
    <em>From you</em>
    . The unsaid words echo loudly in Bruce’s head.
</p><p>
    “We skipped around the country while I was getting better,” Jason
    continues. “Then Roy went back to Lian and I…” Jason shrugs.
</p><p>
    Bruce swallows hard. “You said the <em>first </em>hospital.”
</p><p>
    Jason rubs at his eyes. “Can we not talk about this?”
</p><p>
    Bruce wants to push, he feels strange. Unmoored. He’s out of his depth and
    Jason sounds exhausted.
</p><p>
    He nods jerkily and Jason immediately goes back to his sandwich.
</p><p>
    “Are you going to eat that?” he asks after a minute, eying Bruce’s plate.
    Bruce blinks, then pushes the half-eaten sandwich across the table
    wordlessly.
</p><p>
    ------
</p><p>
    Jason didn’t know it was possible for someone to be this fuckin’ dense.
    Sure there were plenty of times Jason lost control, went too far without
    realizing it, but normally that was in a
    woke-up-covered-in-blood-with-no-memory-of-the-last-three-days sort of way,
    not…whatever the hell Bruce’s deal is.
</p><p>
    <em>Did he have to take you to a hospital?</em>
</p><p>
    Jesus Christ.
</p><p>
    Yeah, that’s normally what happens when you get beaten half to death.
</p><p>
    Ugh.
</p><p>
    The worst thing is, there was a part of him that always figured that with
    all the shit that went down, there was a silver lining. Some sort of
    understanding.
</p><p>
    He always knew it wasn’t the same. Tim was just a kid. An innocent,
    outclassed kid. What Jason did that night in the Tower was unforgivable. In
    comparison, Bruce beating on Jason, who hasn’t been anything close to
    innocent in years, was nothing.
</p><p>
    Still, Bruce was so angry that night. There had to be some sort of
    realization, right? Some sort of understanding of what that kind of anger,
    bone-deep and all-consuming, could drive someone to do?
</p><p>
    Apparently not.
</p><p>
    After lunch, they head down to the cave. Bruce makes a b-line for the
    computer and Jason goes for the training area. There’s not a lot he can do
    with his hands cuffed, but he figures he can make do with some stretches
    and leg work.
</p><p>
    When he gets there, though, he’s confronted by the bat brat.
</p><p>
    “Todd,” he says coolly.
</p><p>
    “Ibn al Xu'ffasch,” Jason answers, just ‘cause he figures it’ll piss the
    kid off.
</p><p>
    He’s right.
</p><p>
    “My name is Damian Wayne,” he spits.
</p><p>
    “Sure,” Jason says. “Whatever you say, al Ghul.”
</p><p>
    The brat bristles, his tiny hands clenching into fists.
</p><p>
    Jason has half a second to think <em>oh shit</em> before he’s on him. He
    manages to block the first couple blows, but the cuffs are buzzing in
    warning against his wrists. He can’t go on the offensive, or they’ll take
    him down, but he can’t move well enough with them on to dodge all the
    brat’s blows. Within moments, he’s knocked down by a vicious kick to his
    already-aching ribs. Jason lets himself fall, rolling backwards and
    springing back up with the leftover momentum just in time to duck out of
    the way of—
</p><p>
    “Stop!”
</p><p>
    Jason freezes, head jerking around at the order, but the kid keeps going
    and—
</p><p>
    Jason’s staring at the ceiling, blinking stars out of his eyes. Bruce is
    swearing somewhere in front of him. Jason starts to get up and the swearing
    intensifies.
</p><p>
    “I did not know that the spell had progressed further, Father,” the brat is
    saying defensively. “If you had told me—”
</p><p>
    Jason shifts, bracing himself against the mounting pain.
</p><p>
    “Jason, <em>lie still</em>,” Bruce orders, and Jason obeys automatically.
    Bruce is there an instant later, shining a light in his eyes and muttering
    worriedly.
</p><p>
    “I’m sure the traitor is fine, father, he—”
</p><p>
    Jason doesn’t see the look Bruce gives the kid, but it must be a good one
    because it shuts him up fast.
</p><p>
    “B,” Jason manages, swallowing back nausea. “I need—”
</p><p>
    There’s a small trash can in his hands before he can even finish the
    sentence and Bruce helps prop him up a bit.
</p><p>
    Vomiting makes his head hurt like a motherfucker, but it’s not like he’s
    got an option.
</p><p>
    “Damian,” Bruce is saying. “Help me get him up, he needs…”
</p><p>
    Jason loses the rest of the sentence as he’s tugged up to his feet. The
    cave is a dark whorl of sound and light and pain. When he finally fades
    back in, he’s lying on a cot. The lights are dimmed. There’re hands on his
    head, tugging at his scalp—
</p><p>
    Sutures, his brain supplies.
</p><p>
    “B,” he tries, but he’s pretty sure it comes out garbled as hell.
</p><p>
    “Guess again, Todd,” the bat brat says. “Father is getting you clean
    clothing.”
</p><p>
    Jason tries to turn to look at the kid, but he’s stopped by a firm hand on
    the side of his face.
</p><p>
    “Tt. Hold still. I’m nearly finished.”
</p><p>
    Fighting to keep his eyes open, Jason almost misses Bruce reentering the
    room.
</p><p>
    “Hey,” Bruce says quietly. “Let’s get you out of that.”
</p><p>
    Jason blinks at him slowly. “Hey, B.”
</p><p>
    “Hey, Jay.” Bruce looks him over critically, then nudges, helping him sit
    up. Jason goes along with it, lifting his arms over his head so Bruce can
    pull his borrowed sweatshirt off like he’s a little kid. When Bruce sets it
    on the cot next to him, Jason frowns, reaching out to touch the red-soaked
    fabric.
</p><p>
    “What.”
</p><p>
    “You hit your head on the squat rack,” Bruce supplies. “There was…a lot of
    blood.”
</p><p>
    “Oh.” Jason frowns, eyes stuck on the bloody sweatshirt.
</p><p>
    Bruce holds out a wet cloth wordlessly and Jason starts wiping away the
    worst of the blood.
</p><p>
    “Ugh,” he groans when he feels his hair. “I need a shower.”
</p><p>
    “Wait a few hours. You were in and out for a while there.”
</p><p>
    Jason grunts and tries to get some of it out. The stickiness against his
    scalp is making his skin crawl. He misses his helmet.
</p><p>
    Finally, he gives up and pulls on the clean hoodie Bruce brought him. He
    starts to hop off the cot, but Bruce splays a hand on his chest, stopping
    him.
</p><p>
    “Jason,” he warns.
</p><p>
    “I’m fine,” Jason insists.
</p><p>
    “Please,” Bruce adds awkwardly. “I—it was a lot of blood.”
</p><p>
    Jason frowns, but doesn’t try to get up again.
</p><p>
    And Bruce. Sets a hand. On his…shoulder?
</p><p>
    Jason glances up quickly, baffled.
</p><p>
    “Can I,” Bruce hesitates, “give you a hug?”
</p><p>
    The look Jason gives him must be something, ‘cause he yanks his hand away
    like he’s been scalded. “Are you like,” Jason asks slowly. “dying or
    something?”
</p><p>
    Bruce’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “What? No.”
</p><p>
    “Then why…”
</p><p>
    “You’re hurt,” Bruce says awkwardly. “Isn’t that what you’re…supposed to
    do? When someone is—”
</p><p>
    “I mean, I guess,” Jason says dubiously.
</p><p>
    “So yes?”
</p><p>
    Jason nods slowly, feeling like he’s in the fuckin’ Twilight Zone.
</p><p>
    And Bruce. Hugs. Him. It’s…not terrible?
</p><p>
    It’s actually kind of nice. Jason lifts up his arms and awkwardly…pats. And
    then wraps and his arm around Bruce’s shoulders. Bruce shifts to
    accommodate, his arm moving a little higher on his back, he squeezes a
    little tighter and the front of the borrowed sweatshirt shifts tightens
    against his throat, and all of a sudden it is <em>not nice</em>. The panic
    hits Jason like a freight train and he goes stiff, his breath catching in
    his throat. He can’t breathe. He can’t—
</p><p>
    The next thing Jason is aware of, Bruce is halfway across the cave,
    speaking softly.
</p><p>
    Fuck.
</p><p>
    He heaves in a lungful of air, then another. He’s not on the cot anymore.
    Without thinking, he grips his bandaged hand and squeezes hard, sending
    flood of pain through—
</p><p>
    “Jason,” Bruce says, suddenly kneeling in front of him, pulling Jason’s
    hands apart gently. He sounds like he’s been crying, which is ridiculous
    but. Jason isn’t thinking straight enough to figure out why he actually
    sounds like that. “Please don’t do that.”
</p><p>
Jason looks down at his hands numbly, then up at Bruce and    <em>what the fuck</em> he <em>has</em> been crying: splotchy skin, red
    eyes, tear tracks down his face.
</p><p>
“I’m sorry,” Bruce manages, sounding like he’s    <em>about to start crying</em>. “I’m so sorry, Jason. I don’t—”
</p><p>
    “It’s fine,” Jason says, then clears his throat. “You’re good, it’s—”
</p><p>
    “No,” Bruce says fiercely and Jason flinches hard, shoving himself even
    tighter into the corner than he’s already lodged.
</p><p>
    Bruce lets go like Jason’s burned him, falling back several paces.
</p><p>
    “Jaylad,” Bruce says. “What do you need? Is it me? I can—Well, I can’t
    leave, but I can go in one of the cells, if that would help?”
</p><p>
    Jason stares at him blankly.
</p><p>
    “Please, Jay,” Bruce says, practically begging. “Please, don’t do that. Let
    go of your hand.”
</p><p>
    Blinking, Jason looks down at his hands. He’s squeezing the broken one
    again. There’s fresh blood welling up from the cuts circling his wrist. He
    lets go.
</p><p>
    “I want you to feel safe,” Bruce is saying. “Please, Jay. What do you
    need?”
</p><p>
    “I’m fine,” Jason insists, levering himself upright. He runs a hand through
    his sticky hair and swallows hard. Jesus. He shakes himself internally,
    trying to bring back some awareness. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
</p><p>
    “Jason,” Bruce pleads.
</p><p>
    Jason heads for the shower.
</p><p>
    He’s hoping the distance between him and Bruce will calm him down, but it
    doesn’t do much except make his head hurt worse. The shower doesn’t wake
    him up, either, just makes him loose-limbed and sleepy. When he opens the
    door, Bruce is there waiting for him and his head immediately hurts less.
    “Dick’s here,” Bruce says. “He wants to talk to you.”
</p><p>
    Jason baulks. He doesn’t want to talk to Dick. “What does—”
</p><p>
    “Hey, little wing.” Dick’s next to the Batcomputer, hip propped against the
    edge of the desk. Jason should have seen him. He has no idea how he didn’t.
</p><p>
    Fuck. He needs sleep. “Dickface,” he says tiredly. “The fuck do you want.”
</p><p>
    “Just want to talk.” Dick’s gaze flicks to Bruce, then back. “Privately.”
</p><p>
    “Not really possible right now.”
</p><p>
    “The cells are soundproof,” Dick says, and Jason flinches.
</p><p>
    It’s stupid. He didn’t even mind the cell that much when Bruce put him in
    there, but this is Dick, and Dick—
</p><p>
    Jason swallows hard, opens his mouth—
</p><p>
    “Bruce can just wait in one for a minute.”
</p><p>
    Oh. Well. Jason looks at Bruce. He seems okay with it. “Just make it
    quick.”
</p><p>
    “Okay,” Jason says. “But we’re not locking the door.”
</p><p>
    He gets two identical confused glances, but he just crosses his arms and
    scowls. He’s not backing down and there’s no way in hell he’s explaining.
    He’s already taken too many hits to his pride the last few days.
</p><p>
    They don’t lock the door.
</p><p>
    ------
</p><p>
    The thing is, Dick didn’t know Jason before he died, not really. He knows
    the few stories Alfred can bear to tell from the years he lived in the
    manor. He knows that Bruce loved him so much his death nearly killed him.
    But Dick only met Jason a few times when he was Robin.
</p><p>
    The version of Jason Dick knows? He nearly killed Tim, left the kid
    screaming himself awake at night for weeks. He beheaded drug dealers,
soaked Gotham’s streets with blood, killed men in Nightwing’s name.    <em></em>
</p><p>
    His reappearance nearly destroyed Bruce, sending him into a downward spiral
    Dick was helpless to stop. He’s also got a hold over Bruce that no one else
    can match. Dick’s had half a lifetime of practice watching Bruce’s blind
    spots for him, and Jason? He’s the biggest one.
</p><p>
    So, it’s a bit of a turn-around, moving Jason from the Protect-Bruce-From
    category to the Protect-From-Bruce category in his head. As he and Babs dig
    through security footage, Dick starts to wonder if, these days, for all the
    power Jason holds over Bruce, Bruce holds more.
</p><p>
    There’s no denying Jason’s brutality in the first year or so after he shows
    up, with his encounters with Batman ending with both of them limping away
    to lick their wounds. But sometime after his stint in Arkham, Jason’s
    aggression faded away. Bruce’s didn’t fade with it.
</p><p>
    Before they can get through all the footage, though, Damian calls.
</p><p>
    “Richard,” he says, clearly trying to be calm but not doing a great job of
    hiding his panic.
</p><p>
    “What’s wrong?”
</p><p>
    “Father is having some sort of fit.”
</p><p>
    “What?”
</p><p>
    “I came down to the cave to straighten the medical equipment and he was
    hyperventilating. It took me several minutes to get him to regain clarity.”
    After a beat, Damian adds: “Todd was affected as well.”
</p><p>
    “Are they alright now?”
</p><p>
    “Todd has locked himself in the bathroom,” Damian says. “Father
    is…fretting.”
</p><p>
    “But no one’s hurt?”
</p><p>
    Damian’s hesitation makes Dick’s heart race. Barbara glances at him in
    alarm.
</p><p>
    “Todd was injured before the incident.”
</p><p>
    “What?” Dick snaps. “How? Did Bruce—”
</p><p>
    “He fell,” Damian answers guardedly. “His head made contact with the squat
    rack.”
</p><p>
    “He fell.”
</p><p>
    “Yes,” Damian says sharply.
</p><p>
    “Dami.”
</p><p>
    The boy huffs. “We may have been engaged in some light sparring at the
    time.”
</p><p>
    “Kinda hard to spar in Batcuffs, isn’t it?”
</p><p>
    “Todd started it,” Damian grumbles. “Besides, Father has already
    reprimanded me. I will not fight him again.”
</p><p>
    “Bruce was upset with you?”
</p><p>
    There’s a beat of silence over the line. “Yes,” Damian says slowly, like he
    thinks Dick is stupid. “Father is very attached to Todd’s welfare.”
</p><p>
    Well. That’s…complicated.
</p><p>
    “I’ll be there soon,” Dick says finally. “No fighting, okay?”
</p><p>
    “Very well.”
</p><p>
    <em>Father is very attached to Todd’s welfare</em>
    .
</p><p>
    Dick doesn’t know what the hell to do with that. How can he be, when he
    nearly killed Jason on that rooftop? It doesn’t make any sense.
</p><p>
    “Everything okay?” Babs asks.
</p><p>
    A humorless laugh bursts out of Dick’s throat. He shakes his head.
    “Everyone’s alive. For now.”
</p><p>
    Babs frowns at him. “I can finish this on my own,” she says. “If you want
    to head over now.”
</p><p>
    Dick swallows, then nods. “Yeah, I—Yeah. If you’re sure?”
</p><p>
    Babs nods, waving him towards the door. “Shoo.”
</p><p>
    Dick heads for his bike. When he pulls into the cave ten minutes later,
    Bruce is the only one there. He looks like death warmed over.
</p><p>
    “Where’s Jason?” Dick asks before he’s even off his bike.
</p><p>
    “Shower.” Bruce gestures to the wall he’s leaning against. “Tim or Damian?”
</p><p>
    “Both,” Dick answers. “B, what the hell is going on here?”
</p><p>
    “We got hit by a spell,” Bruce says after a minute. “I called Zatanna, but
    she’s off world. It’s going to be a few days before she can come take a
    look.”
</p><p>
    Dick is shaking his head. “I know that. Tim told me that. Bruce,” Dick
    says, “Tell me how Jason got hurt.”
</p><p>
    Bruce’s face goes blank as stone and Dick nearly hits him, nearly throws
    up, nearly smashes everything in the goddamn house.
</p><p>
    “B,” he says instead. “What happened? I need to hear your side, I need—”
</p><p>
    “I found him in the warehouse,” Bruce says quietly, glancing at the door.
    “I was looking for that new mercenary that’s been taking hits in Gotham.
    And he—Well.”
</p><p>
    “He was there,” Dick says. “And you assumed.”
</p><p>
    The blankness cracks for a moment and Bruce says, defensive: “It’s not like
    he wouldn’t have done it.”
</p><p>
    “But he didn’t,” Dick says. “He hasn’t been in Gotham for months.”
</p><p>
    “Almost a year.”
</p><p>
    Fuck. Has it really been that long? “So you tried to take him in?” Dick
    prompts, but Bruce’s expression shifts and he knows he got it wrong.
</p><p>
    “Tensions escalated.”
</p><p>
    “Bruce.”
</p><p>
    “We fought.”
</p><p>
    “Bruce,” Dick says, quieter. “Tim says Jason’s injuries aren’t consistent
    with a fight. They’re consistent with a <em>beating</em>.”
</p><p>
    “I made a mistake,” Bruce admits stiffly. “I thought—”
</p><p>
    “It doesn’t matter what you thought, B, he <em>wasn’t fighting back.</em>”
</p><p>
    Bruce deflates. “I know. I don’t—” He drags a hand over his face. “I don’t
    know how it got like this, Dick. I never—” His voice cracks and Dick just
    looks at him in horror. He looks like he’s about to cry. “I never meant to
    hurt him,” he says roughly.
</p><p>
    “But you did,” Dick snaps, angry. “You did hurt him. And not just this
    time—”
</p><p>
    The shower turns off.
</p><p>
    “I want to talk to him,” Dick demands. “Away from you.”
</p><p>
    “Okay,” Bruce says sounding sad and small and <em>young</em>, and the
    knowledge that he isn’t old enough to be his father, barely old enough to
    be Jason’s, hits Dick in the face like a brick.
</p><p>
    “Bruce—”
</p><p>
    The door opens and Jason steps out. He looks rough. Dick can’t see much
    under the joggers and hoodie he’s got on, but he can tell he’s hurting by
    the way he stands, the lines of tension on his face. His eyes lock onto
    Bruce immediately, a little bit of tension draining away. Dick doesn’t know
    what to do with that. He needs to talk to him.
</p><p>
    “Hey, little wing,” he says, when it’s obvious the younger man hasn’t
    noticed him standing there.
</p><p>
    “Dickface.” The half-hearted insult slides off Dick like rain on oil-slick
    pavement. “The fuck do you want.”
</p><p>
    “Just want to talk,” Dick assures him. “Privately.”
</p><p>
    “Not really possible right now.”
</p><p>
    “The cells are soundproof,” Dick says, and then immediately regrets it as
    Jason flinches. “Bruce can just wait in one for a minute,” he adds
    hurriedly.
</p><p>
    Jason still looks uncertain. He glances towards Bruce for, what? Approval?
    Fucking permission? Dick takes a deep breath. He can’t get angry now. He
    has to stay rational.
</p><p>
    “Just make it quick,” Bruce says, and that seems to convince Jason.
</p><p>
    “Okay,” he says. “But we’re not locking the door.”
</p><p>
    …what?
</p><p>
    Dick wants to protest, but Jason looks like he’s ready to die on this hill
    and Bruce looks so worn down, Dick figures he could take him if anything
    happened anyway.
</p><p>
    He lets it go.
</p><p>
    “Jason,” Dick starts, once the door closes behind Bruce. “I’ve been talking
    to Tim—”
</p><p>
    Jason groans. He slides down the outside wall of the cell Bruce is in,
    tipping his head back to rest against the glass. “Is this the mind control
    thing again? I told that kid to get some sleep.”
</p><p>
    “He was wrong about the mind control,” Dick agrees, folding to sit on the
    floor in front of his brother. “But we still have a problem.”
</p><p>
    “Bruce reached out to Zatanna,” Jason says. “She’ll be by when she can and
    then I’ll be out of your hair, don’t worry.”
</p><p>
    “Jason,” Dick says. “I don’t care about that. This is about the way Bruce
    has been treating you.”
</p><p>
    Jason stares at him. “He just took the cuffs off,” he says slowly. “I can
    put them back on if—”
</p><p>
    “No,” Dick says, maybe harder than he should have. “I’m talking about Bruce
    beating your ass in New York. And after Penguin. And all the times I’m sure
    we didn’t catch on camera.”
</p><p>
    Jason scowls. “What about it?”
</p><p>
    “It’s wrong,” Dick says forcefully. “It’s wrong and it has to stop.”
</p><p>
    “I told you I’m leaving as soon as the spell is gone.”
</p><p>
    “That isn’t the point—”
</p><p>
    “Dickie,” Jason sighs. He’s let his eyes slide shut. “What the fuck are you
    trying to accomplish?”
</p><p>
    “I’m trying to <em>help you,</em>” he says. “This is <em>abuse</em>—”
</p><p>
    Jason’s eyes snap open and lock onto Dick’s. “Shut the fuck up,” he snaps,
    pushing himself to his feet. Dick follows him up.
</p><p>
    “Jason, this isn’t okay, he’s out of—”
</p><p>
    “No,” Jason says, voice hard. “Leave it.”
</p><p>
    “Jason, he—”
</p><p>
    “I don’t care.” He’s looming over Dick now, using the few inches he has
    over him to his advantage. “I don’t give a flying fuck. This is,” he
    falters, swallows, then starts again, “this is the best we’ve been years.
    We’re <em>talking</em>. You want to help me? Then don’t fuck this up, Dick.
    Don’t you fucking dare.”
</p><p>
    Dick just stares at him. “Jason,” he says. “What—”
</p><p>
    But then the younger man’s tipping forward, falling into him, a low,
    strangled sound of pain escaping his throat.
</p><p>
    “Shit,” Dick breathes and scrambles to catch him, prop him against the
    wall. “Is it your head, should I call Les—”
</p><p>
    “No, it’s,” Jason pants, “the cell. The spell doesn’t,” he inhales roughly,
    hands gripping his head like it’s going to crack in two, “like barriers.”
</p><p>
    Okay. Okay. He can fix that. Dick shoves the cell door open frantically and
    Bruce and Jason both slump like puppets with their strings cut. Dick pulls
    out his phone to call Leslie, but Jason pushes off the wall and bats his
    hands down. “Stop. We’re fine. B just needs sleep.”
</p><p>
    “How—”
</p><p>
    “We pulled a mattress into his room,” Jason says, ducking into the cell to
    help Bruce to his feet. “I—ugh, fuck, old man, lay off Alfred’s cookies.”
</p><p>
    Bruce just mumbles something incoherent. Dick doesn’t know what to do.
</p><p>
    “Jason,” he says, helplessly.
</p><p>
    “Help me get him upstairs,” the younger man orders, and Dick ducks under
    Bruce’s other arm.
</p><p>
    The going is rough. Dick never caught up to Bruce in height or weight,
    Jason’s hurting enough that he’s exhaling harshly on every step, and Bruce
    is barely coordinated enough to help at all. They take the elevator up to
    the manor, then wobble their way up the stairs to Bruce’s room. Tim appears
    for a minute, but Jason runs him off.
</p><p>
    “Get lost, Replacement,” he growls. “I told you to get some fucking sleep.”
</p><p>
    Bruce mumbles something Dick doesn’t catch, but Jason huffs back at him.
</p><p>
    “I wouldn’t have to if he stayed the fuck out of my business.”
</p><p>
    They make it to Bruce’s room, finally, and drop the man into his bed. He’s
    out in seconds. Jason wipes sweat off his brow with a forearm, then tugs
    off Bruce’s shoes and throws a blanket over him.
</p><p>
    “What’s wrong with him?” Dick asks quietly.
</p><p>
    Jason shrugs. “Nothing. He’s just tired.”
</p><p>
    Dick hesitates. “Tim said he’s been sleeping a lot.”
</p><p>
    “Yeah,” Jason exhales. He won’t meet Dick’s gaze, eyes fixed on Bruce.
</p><p>
    “So,” Dick shifts, eying Jason critically. “Sleep deprivation can leak
    through the link, then?”
</p><p>
    Jason’s shoulders tense. “Yeah.”
</p><p>
    “When’s the last time you got enough?”
</p><p>
    Jason fiddles with the cuffs on his sweatshirt, then sighs and turns to
    face Dick. “It’s been a while.”
</p><p>
    He looks worse than Dick’s ever seen him. The bruises and abrasions on the
    right side of his face look terrible against his almost sickly-pale skin.
    His wrists and hands are a mess of bandages and splints. The rings under
    his eyes are so dark they look like bruises. He’s standing stiff and
    awkward, like he’s hurting, and Dick realizes he never called Leslie. He
    probably should.
</p><p>
    “You need to sleep,” Dick says, as gently as he can.
</p><p>
    Jason shrugs halfheartedly.
</p><p>
    “Why aren’t you sleeping?” Dick tries again.
</p><p>
    Jason curls in on himself, like he’s ashamed, and Dick doesn’t understand.
</p><p>
    “Jason?”
</p><p>
    “I can’t,” he admits quietly. “I can’t sleep here. Keep getting
    nightmares.”
</p><p>
    “Jason,” Dick says, careful to not let any of his anger leak out. “I’m here
    now, I’m not going anywhere—”
</p><p>
Jason snarls, teeth bared. “Is that supposed to make me feel    <em>better</em>?”
</p><p>
    “Jason,” Dick says, frowning. “I would never let anyone hurt—”
</p><p>
    He barks a laugh and Dick flinches back. It’s a mean thing, all sharp edged
    and raw. “Big Bird,” he says. “Don’t bullshit me.”
</p><p>
    “Jason, what are you talking about? You’re my brother. I wouldn’t—”
</p><p>
    “Don’t fucking <em>bullshit me</em>,” Jason grinds out.
</p><p>
    “When have I ever—”
</p><p>
    “You threw me in fucking <em>Arkham, </em>Dick! Don’t pretend that you give
    a fuck.”
</p><p>
    Dick’s stomach drops. He swallows hard, looking for words. “I was trying to
    help. You needed—”
</p><p>
    “I needed what?” Jason’s starting to sound hysterical. “Shitty food and
    worse company?”
</p><p>
    “Jason—”
</p><p>
    “The Joker was five cells down, Dickface,” Jason says viciously. “Did I
    fuckin’ need that?”
</p><p>
    No—Joker— Swallowing back bile, Dick says: “I didn’t know that, I—”
</p><p>
    “So you didn’t <em>check</em>,” Jason snarls. “You want to know what it was
    like? Hearing my murderer laugh all night long, every <em>fuckin’ </em>
    night?”
</p><p>
    Dick’s shaking his head, mind blank with horror. He didn’t know, he didn’t—
</p><p>
    “You wanna know how much that fucked me up? How fast I broke?” Jason has
    him backing up now. “Huh, <em>big brother</em>? You wanna know?”
</p><p>
    Dick’s shaking his head desperately. “Jason, Jay, please, stop, I—”
</p><p>
    Jason shoves him back, hard enough to knock the wind out of him when his
    back slams against the wall. “You fuckin’ hypocrite,” he snarls, and it
    sounds like anger but all Dick sees in his face is hurt, old and bone-deep.
    It’s bleeding off of him. “You’re mad at B, cause, what? He knocked me
    around a little? So what? We get beat up for a living, Dickface. What
    difference does it make if he beats the shit out of me every once in a
    while? I’d rather break every goddamn bone in my entire body than go to
Arkham. I’d rather cut off my own arm. I’d rather fucking    <em>die again. </em>So don’t you dare talk to me like you’re better than
    him, like you give a—”
</p><p>
    “Jason,” Bruce says, grabbing the younger man’s shoulder.
</p><p>
    Jason’s teeth flash and he starts throwing punches.
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So I honestly have no idea what Jason was doing directly after trying to get Bruce to kill Joker, but it's convenient in this universe to say he got picked up by Ra's and Talia for a while, so that's what happened. (FYI, this is not going to be a terribly Talia-friendly work. It seems like she's done a lot more questionable things than Bruce has, so I'm always super confused when stories paint her as a better parent/person than him.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Dick,” Bruce cuts him off, reaching out to grip his son’s hand tightly, “it’s not your fault.”</p><p>Dick makes a low, wounded sound, covering his eyes with his free hand.</p><p>“It’s not,” Bruce repeats firmly. “All of this, everything that’s happened since he came back, it never should have been yours to deal with. It’s all my fault. And I’m going to fix it.”</p><p>“How?” Dick manages.</p><p>“I don’t know.” Bruce swallows hard. “But I’ll figure it out, okay? I will figure it out.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Merry Christmas! Here's a chapter of Jason whump.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
    Bruce <em>hurts.</em>
</p><p>
    <em>Everything</em>
    hurts.
</p><p>
    He feels like he’s being torn apart from the inside, like something’s
    reaching inside his chest and tearing his heart to shreds.
</p><p>
    <em>Jason.</em>
</p><p>
    Bruce drags himself awake and reaches out towards his son.
</p><p>
    To the sound of a furious snarl and a rush of pain and fear and rage
    spilling over the link, he falls to the ground, twin bursts of pain flaring
    in his hand and face.
</p><p>
    He feels the weight drop onto his hips, pinning him. One punch lands, two,
and then the weight—<em>Jason</em> is off him, but his ribs, oh God, his <em>ribs</em>—
</p><p>
    Gasping for air, Bruce levers himself up, eyes landing on his two oldest
    sons locked together on the floor, Dick pinning Jason. Jason’s fighting,
    spitting with rage. Bruce focuses on breathing, and slowly, eventually,
    Jason stops.
</p><p>
    He can’t breathe. Jesus, he can’t—
</p><p>
    “Dick,” Bruce manages. “Ribs.”
</p><p>
    His oldest shifts and Bruce exhales, the burning in his chest fading away.
</p><p>
    The rage is gone, too, melted away like spring snow. All Bruce is getting
    from Jason is pain and hurt and—
</p><p>
    “Let him up.”
</p><p>
    Dick looks at him like he’s insane. “Bruce, he’s—”
</p><p>
    “He’s fine,” Bruce insists. “Let him go.”
</p><p>
    Warily, Dick eases off of Jason’s back, but the younger of the pair doesn’t
    make a move. He lies motionless, forehead pressed against the hardwood
    flooring.
</p><p>
    He’s crying.
</p><p>
    “Jaylad,” Bruce says, barely keeping his eyes open. “Baby.”
</p><p>
    Jason cries harder, wrapping his arms around his head as he shakes,
    blocking any view of his face.
</p><p>
    Bruce doesn’t bother to stand, just drags himself over to Jason’s side. He
    cards his fingers through Jason’s dark hair like he would when Jason was
    sick as a boy. “I’m so sorry, Jaylad,” he murmurs. “It’s gonna be okay.
    You’re gonna be okay.”
</p><p>
    Jason shakes his head.
</p><p>
    “I promise,” Bruce vows. “I promise, we’re gonna make it okay. We’ll fix
    it.”
</p><p>
    Slowly, Bruce’s second son cries himself to sleep.
</p><p>
    “Bruce?”
</p><p>
    The older man grunts, opening one eye.
</p><p>
    “You’re crying.”
</p><p>
    Surprised, he swipes at wet cheeks. He didn’t realize.
</p><p>
    “Are you—” Dick hesitates. He’s upset. “Is it you, or Jason?”
</p><p>
    Bruce just shrugs. He’s not sure he knows. “What happened?” he asks
    instead.
</p><p>
    Dick is silent for a long moment, then says: “Did you know the Joker was in
    Arkham when I put Jason in there? When we thought you were dead?”
</p><p>
    Bruce frowns, thinking.
</p><p>
    “I didn’t—” Dick’s voice cracks. “Why didn’t I check, Bruce? Why didn’t I
    think to check?”
</p><p>
    “Dick,” Bruce says slowly. “Joker wasn’t in Arkham.”
</p><p>
    Dick shakes his head, uncomprehending. “Jason said—”
</p><p>
    “He wasn’t there,” Bruce repeats. “I checked up on all the Rogues when I
    got back. Joker and Jason were never in Arkham at the same time.”
</p><p>
    “But Jason—”
</p><p>
    “Dick,” Bruce says, locking eyes with the younger man. “You didn’t put him
    in Arkham with Joker.”
</p><p>
    “Why,” Dick pauses to swallow, looking a little wild around the eyes. “Why
    would he lie about that?”
</p><p>
    “Hn,” Bruce grunts. “I didn’t say he lied.”
</p><p>
    “Can you stop with the non-answers for a single goddamn second?” Dick
    snaps, glaring at Bruce with reddened eyes.
</p><p>
    Bruce watches his fingers card through Jason’s dark hair while he struggles
    to find the words he needs. “I’m not trying to be cryptic,” he says
    eventually, looking up to meet Dick’s gaze. “A week ago, I probably—” The
    words stick in his throat and he lowers his eyes, swallowing back a sudden
    and terrible shame. “I would have assumed he was lying. I’m realizing
    there’s a lot about Jason I don’t know.”
</p><p>
    Bruce swallows thickly. The depth and breadth of damage they—<em>Bruce</em>
    has inflicted on Jason without even realizing it is—
</p><p>
    It’s nauseating. It’s unfathomable. It’s—
</p><p>
    “Does it matter if he was there?” Dick says lowly.
</p><p>
    Bruce looks up, confused. There are fresh tears welling up in his son’s
    eyes.
</p><p>
    “Arkham was supposed to help him,” Dick continues. “That’s why I put him
    there. But whether Joker was there or not, it didn’t help. It just made
    everything worse. It fucked him up, and I did that, I chose to put him
    there and—"
</p><p>
    “Dick,” Bruce cuts him off, reaching out to grip his son’s hand tightly,
    “it’s not your fault.”
</p><p>
    Dick makes a low, wounded sound, covering his eyes with his free hand.
</p><p>
    “It’s not,” Bruce repeats firmly. “All of this, everything that’s happened
    since he came back, it never should have been yours to deal with. It’s all
    my fault. And I’m going to fix it.”
</p><p>
    “How?” Dick manages.
</p><p>
    “I don’t know.” Bruce swallows hard. “But I’ll figure it out, okay? I will
    figure it out.”
</p><p>
    ------
</p><p>
    When Dick finally staggers out of Bruce’s room, Tim’s waiting right
    outside, trying to ignore Damian.
</p><p>
    “I thought you were supposed to be sleeping,” Dick manages. He looks like
    shit.
</p><p>
    Tim glares at him half-heartedly. “Would you be able to sleep right now?”
</p><p>
    Dick just shakes his head, eyes red rimmed and watery. “How much of that
    did you hear?”
</p><p>
    “Some. I bugged Bruce’s room after last night. We,” Tim clears his throat,
    “stopped watching after he stopped fighting.”
</p><p>
    “That’s—” Dick’s voice breaks. “That was smart. The bug.”
</p><p>
    “This is foolish,” Damian snaps. His arms are crossed over his chest. “You
    had no choice but to apprehend Todd. It is not your fault that he hasn’t
    conquered his fear of—”
</p><p>
    “Stop,” Dick says, voice suddenly hard. “Don’t ever say that again.”
</p><p>
    Damian stops, eyes wide in shock. Tim can’t believe it either. “Richard—”
</p><p>
    “No.” Dick’s expression is stormy. “I’m dead serious, right now, Damian.
    Don’t ever say that. Jason,” he takes a measured breath, “needed help. And
    I thought Arkham would help him, but it didn’t, and I should have known
    that. I should have found another way. I should never have used Bruce’s
    will against him like that in the first place, I—” Dick falters, shaking
    his head.
</p><p>
    “We can’t do anything about it now,” Tim cuts in. “Except figure out how to
    not let it happen again.”
</p><p>
    “Babs is coming over in the morning.” Dick runs a hand over his face. “We
    were going to call a meeting anyway. I guess. I guess now it’ll just be
    about more than Bruce.”
</p><p>
    “Dick,” Tim says, low. “That’s not fair. You didn’t mean to hurt him—”
</p><p>
    “But I did,” Dick snaps. He takes a deep breath. “But I did. And so much of
    this could’ve been avoided if we’d just <em>listened to him</em>, so I’m
    listening now. And he says what I did was worse than,” Dick’s voice takes
    on a strangled, almost hysteric edge, “than dying. So I’m not off the
    hook.”
</p><p>
    After a long moment of silence, Tim says: “I’ll text Steph and Cass. Tell
    them to come by around…noon?”
</p><p>
    Dick nods.
</p><p>
    Tim pulls out his phone to text the girls, then double checks the date.
    “Fuck,” he says. “Alfred’s flight gets in at five. I forgot.”
</p><p>
    “Shit,” Dick swears. “I’ll pick him up.”
</p><p>
    “I can—”
</p><p>
    “No,” Dick says. “You’ve barely slept for days. I’ll get him.”
</p><p>
    Tim pulls a face but nods. If he shows up to the airport this
    sleep-deprived, Alfred will kill him.
</p><p>
    “I will accompany—”
</p><p>
    Dick shakes his head. “I need you to stay here. If something happens, if a
    fight breaks out, Tim will be outnumbered. You both need to be here.”
</p><p>
    “Tt. Fine. I will ensure Father’s safety.” Dick crosses his arms. Damian
    grumbles but adds: “Todd’s as well.”
</p><p>
    “Everyone get to bed,” Dick orders. “Bruce and Jason should be fine for the
    night, they’re both in bed and asleep.”
</p><p>
    Tim heads to his old room without complaint. He texts Steph and Cass on the
    way.
</p><p>
    <em>Family meeting at noon tmrw come prepared for it to get ugly</em>
</p><p>
    Steph sends back a: <em>Oooh spill the tea</em>
</p><p>
    <em>Actually really shitty</em>
</p><p>
    <em>Don’t say anything like that to dick</em>
</p><p>
    Cass says: <em>Will come. Everyone okay?</em>
</p><p>
    Tim stares at that for a minute, then:
</p><p>
    <em>No ones dead yet</em>
</p><p>
    <em>Should we be worried? </em> Steph asks.
</p><p>
    <em>Maybe</em>
</p><p>
    Tim hovers his thumbs over the screen, worrying at his lip.
</p><p>
    <em>Recently discovered Bs been beating up Jason on the regular</em>
</p><p>
    <em>Other shit also coming to light</em>
</p><p>
    <em>Looks like we mightve fucked Jason up on accident</em>
</p><p>
    <em>Dude wtf</em>, Steph sends.
</p><p>
    <em>Explain</em>
</p><p>
    <em>Too long</em>
</p><p>
    <em>Have to sleep see you tmrw</em>
</p><p>
    He ignores Steph’s <em>WTF TIMBERLY</em> and texts Babs:
</p><p>
    <em>Jasons pissed at dick fyi</em>
</p><p>
    He sends her the video of the confrontation for good measure. It’s probably
    a breach of privacy, but at this point Tim doesn’t give a fuck.
</p><p>
    He takes a quick shower, then sets an alarm for 11 and crawls into bed. He’s
    out in seconds.
</p><p>
    ------
</p><p>
    Jason wakes up feeling like death hungover, which, somehow, is an
    improvement on how he’d been feeling before.
</p><p>
    There’s a blanket draped over him, but he’s still dressed in the sweats and
    hoodie he’d thrown on after showering in the cave. His head is supported by
    a pillow—
</p><p>
    No. Not a pillow.
</p><p>
    <em>Probably Bruce’s shoulder</em>, he thinks, and immediately wants to jump off a fucking cliff.
</p><p>
    He realizes Bruce is carding a hand through his hair and almost starts
    crying again.
</p><p>
    “Jay?” Bruce murmurs, his hand halting.
</p><p>
    Jason tries to muster up the energy to open his eyes or move, but—
</p><p>
    He’s a fuckin’ infant.
</p><p>
    He lies still.
</p><p>
    Bruce starts running his fingers over Jason’s scalp again, just like he
    would when Jason was a scrawny little shit.
</p><p>
    Eventually, Bruce says: “I know you’re awake.”
</p><p>
    Jason tenses for a moment, but Bruce doesn’t push him away, so he just
    grunts and shifts so the gauze on his head isn’t tugging at his skin
    anymore.
</p><p>
    He hates himself so. Fucking. Much.
</p><p>
    “How are you feeling?”
</p><p>
    Jason grunts again, noncommittal, and tries to fall back asleep. He figures
    he might be able to manage it. Batman might as well not even exist, right
    now. B is 100% Bruce.
</p><p>
    “We should go eat something,” Bruce says. “You’ve been asleep for nearly
    twelve hours.”
</p><p>
    Jason jerks in surprise, scrubbing at his face as he scrambles out of the
    bed. “What?”
</p><p>
    Bruce is looking up at him bemusedly. “It’s almost ten. You slept all
    night.”
</p><p>
    “Fuck you,” Jason retorts automatically. “The hell I did.”
</p><p>
    Bruce groans like an old man as he rises stiffly to his feet. He looks at
    Jason balefully. “Next time, could you fall asleep on a bed?”
</p><p>
    “What the fuck,” Jason manages.
</p><p>
    “I’m too old to carry you,” he says. “Even with Dick’s help.”
</p><p>
    “<em>What the fuck.</em>”
</p><p>
    “I’m not as young as I once was, Jaylad.”
</p><p>
    Bruce has a soft sort of look on his face, like he used to when Jason was
    scrawny and little and something about it digs into Jason, biting deep.
</p><p>
    He should’ve had this all along, he realizes. If it wasn’t for Joker, and
    Talia, and his own <em>fucking </em>self, he could’ve had this for years.
    But he can’t, not anymore, ‘cause he’s fucked everything up, hasn’t he? And
    Bruce has other kids now, so many other kids that he loves and that love
    him and that haven’t tried to kill him or each other, that haven’t tried to
    make Bruce kill, make him destroy himself, that haven’t pissed all over
    everything he stands for, that haven’t gone on murder sprees in his city,
    painted his streets red with the blood of men he thought redeemable, and
    some of it’s Jason’s fault, yeah, but not all of it, and it’s not fair that
    he doesn’t get to have this, this soft Bruce with stubble and bedhead.
</p><p>
    It’s not <em>fair</em>.
</p><p>
    And it’s fucking stupid that he’s upset about this, he’s not a little kid,
    he doesn’t need Bruce, he <em>doesn’t</em>, he was fine before all this,
    he’d gotten over it, he’d <em>moved on. </em>This <em>isn’t fair.</em>
</p><p>
    There’s green at the edges of his vision. Not a ton, but more than the
    Pit’s shown up in a good few weeks. It’s not that bad. He barely would’ve
    noticed, except Bruce reels back, one hand snapping up to press against his
    chest, eyes wide with alarm. “Jason,” he says. “What—”
</p><p>
    “Oh, fuck no,” Jason nearly growls, and storms out of the room and towards
    the stairs. No way in hell he’s having that conversation. He’s too fucking
    tired. He moves so fast the headache’s building by the time Bruce manages
    to scramble out of bed and stumble down the stairs after him.
</p><p>
    “Jason,” he repeats. “What’s wrong?”
</p><p>
    “Nothing.” Jason shoves his way into the kitchen. Coffee. Coffee makes
    everything better.
</p><p>
    “It’s not—nothing,” Bruce struggles to find words, frustrated. Angry,
    probably. “I <em>know</em>, I can feel it.”
</p><p>
    Jason can’t remember where the bag of coffee grounds is, so he starts
    yanking cupboards open at random. He dumps some into the machine when he
    finds it, barely remembering to put a filter in first.
</p><p>
    “Jason,” Bruce says again, almost pleading. He’s breathing fast, hand still
    clutched to his chest like his heart’s about to fail. “What’s wrong? Did
    something happen? Is—”
</p><p>
    Jason slams the coffee machine closed and starts it, then closes his eyes,
    leaning his weight on the counter, head down. He does his fuckin’ breathing
    exercises, feels the green recede. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says finally.
    Well, lots of things are wrong, but. “That just—” he exhales, dragging his
    hair off his forehead. “That just happens.”
</p><p>
    “It felt like—”
</p><p>
    “I know what it fuckin’ feels like,” Jason snaps. He starts grabbing things
    out of the nearly empty fridge, trying to keep his hands busy. It feels
    like there’s someone else inside you, clawing around in there, scraping
    away at your ribs and the inside of your skull, echoing all your worst
    thoughts, feeding all the hate you have until it’s bigger than anything
    else, until it’s all that’s left, until it turns outward and you spill all
    that hate and rage out like acid, turning everything sour and sick and
    burning ugly, bleeding holes through anything you ever gave a shit about.
</p><p>
    It feels like the end of the goddamn world, is what it feels like.
</p><p>
    “That’s the Lazarus Pit, isn’t it?” Yeah, Bruce. It’s the fucking Lazarus
    Pit. “Is it—is it always that bad?”
</p><p>
    Jason starts so hard he almost drops a full carton of eggs on the floor. He
    turns to look at Bruce, incredulous. Bad?
</p><p>
    “Is it always that bad?” Bruce repeats, voice quiet but urgent, like he’s
    worried, like he thinks—
</p><p>
    Oh, <em>fuck</em>, Jason is laughing. He’s laughing harder than he has in
    years, arm curled around his bruised ribs. Bruce is looking at him like
    he’s about to implode and Jason’s head is pounding, his ribs are screaming
    at him, but he can’t make himself stop. “You think,” he wheezes. “You think
    that’s <em>bad</em>?” He <em>knows </em>it’s not funny, but—
</p><p>
    It’s just—
</p><p>
    “Jason,” Bruce says, like he’s hurt. Like he’s trying to help. He’s got a
    hand curled around his own ribs, even though it’s not his ribs that are
    bruised and he’s the one who fucking bruised <em>Jason’s</em>, but it’s his
    voice that pulls Jason out of it. Bruce’s voice, saying his name like it’s
    worth something, like Bruce <em>cares</em>—
</p><p>
    He shoves the thought out of his head viciously. Shoves away the image of
    Bruce soft with sleep, the feeling of his fingers carding through Jason’s
    hair. The old man’s going to kick him right back out of the city as soon as
he has an excuse, most likely with a few broken bones and a    <em>never come back</em> for good measure. Maybe this time he’ll be banned
    from the whole eastern seaboard, just to avoid a repeat of this incident.
</p><p>
    Bruce knows it. Jason knows it. Everyone in the goddamn family knows it.
</p><p>
    He grits his teeth.
</p><p>
    The least the bastard can do is not fucking <em>lie </em>about it.
</p><p>
    The green is back at the edges of his vision, creeping in, and it’s been a
    long time since Jason first wrestled it under control, a long time since
    it’s been anything other than tightly leashed, but today, today he’s going
    to let it <em>go</em> for a minute.
</p><p>
    He’ll be fucking <em>honest</em>. Maybe Bruce will learn something new.
</p><p>
    Jason exhales, and drops the leash.
</p><p>
    Bruce makes a strangled, terrified sort of sound and staggers into the wall
when it hits him. He slides down to the ground, lungs heaving, and then he    <em>roars</em>.
</p><p>
    The sound of pure rage fills the kitchen, maybe even the whole fucking
    manor, as Bruce screams himself hoarse, hands fisted in his hair, knuckles
    white. He screams until he’s out of air, then pants, lungs heaving for a
    long four count.
</p><p>
    Jason just watches him. The Pit is thrumming in his veins, eager for a
    fight. Jason cocks his head. “Huh,” he says, “I thought you were better
    than that.”
</p><p>
    Bruce looks up at him slowly, a feral, predatory tilt to his head.
</p><p>
    “You want to take that out on something, old man? The Replacement makes a
    good punching bag, you know. Screams real pretty.”
</p><p>
    There’s a low, rumbling sort of growl coming from deep in Bruce’s chest as
    he rises to his feet, wrathful gaze locked on Jason.
</p><p>
    Jason bares his teeth in a savage smile. “If you take it slow, you can get
    him begging eventually. Tears and snot and everything.”
</p><p>
    Bruce’s mouth twists, anger and hate and violence marring his usually stoic
    face. The growling gets louder and the hair on the back of Jason’s neck
    stands up. For the first time, he understands the terror he inspired in
    Gotham’s underworld all those years ago and it knocks a bit of sense back
    into him.
</p><p>
    The Pit is urging him forward, itching for blood, but he ignores it and
    tries to think through the haze of rage and pain. His ribs are aching and
    his head is pounding and half his fingers are still splinted and, a little
    distantly, Jason realizes that this was a bad idea.
</p><p>
    The coffee machine beeps, finished, and Jason shifts at the noise,
    surprised. In the split second of distraction, Bruce lunges.
</p><p>
    A few years ago, Jason would’ve been completely overcome by the bloodlust,
    by the Pit’s harsh reminders of all the shit Bruce has pulled over the
    years, but not anymore. He’s older now. Wiser. Maybe just used to tuning it
    out. He sucks in a deep breath and closes his eyes, pulls back from the
    gaping chasm of green in his head.
</p><p>
    He’s got about a second of clarity to realize that this mistake might very
    well be his last, and then Bruce is on him.
</p><p>
    There’s nothing Jason can do, really, except try and roll with the punches.
    He’s hurting too bad, and he—he doesn’t want to hurt Bruce. Not really. Not
    when the Pit isn’t screaming at him. Not when this is all his fucking
    fault. So he just lets it happen and prays Bruce shakes the Pit out of his
    head before he kills him.
</p><p>
    Jesus, he’s stupid.
</p><p>
    Bruce grabs him by the collar and slams a knee into his ribs, once, twice,
    then slams his bare fist into Jason’s jaw. Jason’s hands come up on reflex,
    trying to protect his head, but that must piss him off more, ‘cause he
    grabs Jason by a wrist and throws him in an arc that ends with Jason’s ribs
    slamming into the edge of the island with a sickening crack.
</p><p>
    Jason must lose a bit of time, then, because the next thing he knows, he’s
    faceup on the floor, Bruce’s unmovable weight pinning his hips. He rolls
    with the first punch, is mostly out of it for the second, and then Bruce’s
    hands wrap around his throat and the panic wakes him up.
</p><p>
    “Bruce,” he wheezes. “Br—Bruce.”
</p><p>
    He gets his hands around one of Bruce’s wrists but he’s not budging and
    Jason’s getting weaker by the second.
</p><p>
    <em>Jesus fuck,</em>
    he thinks as everything starts to go blurry and gray. <em>I’m a moron.</em>
</p><p>
    And then the pressure around his neck is gone, and so is the weight on his
    hips, and Jason’s lungs heave desperately, pulling in air as fast as they
    can. He rolls onto his side and tries to get his hands under him but
    doesn’t quite manage it. He sucks in some more air, then coughs, gags,
    tries to get up again, and collapses back onto the floor.
</p><p>
    ------
</p><p>
    Bruce comes back to himself with his hands wrapped around his son’s neck,
    choking the life out of him. He shoves himself back in a panic, careening
backwards into the cabinets as Jason—    <em>oh God, Jason, Jason, what did I—</em>gasps on the kitchen floor. Bruce
    doesn’t understand—he doesn’t—why—
</p><p>
    —there’s something blocking Jason from view?
</p><p>
    “Tim?” Bruce blinks up at the boy and then his muscles seize and the world
    goes white and the next thing he knows, he’s lying on his side, face
    pressed against the cabinets with his hands cuffed behind his back.
</p><p>
    He tries to shift, then realizes that his ankles are cuffed. And linked to
    his wrists.
</p><p>
    This is bad. This is—
</p><p>
    “What the <em>fuck</em>, baby bird??”
</p><p>
    <em>Jason.</em>
</p><p>
    “He was hurting you—”
</p><p>
    “That was <em>my fault</em>—”
</p><p>
    “Jason,” Bruce manages, trying to shift, to turn. He needs to see if he’s
    alright.
</p><p>
    “Your fault? What, are we in Stockholm territory already?”
</p><p>
    “No! Would you fucking listen to me for once?”
</p><p>
    “Jason.” He can’t move. He’s cuffed too tight and he doesn’t have any
    leverage and—
</p><p>
    “He had his hands around your <em>neck</em>—”
</p><p>
    “Well, yeah, but—”
</p><p>
    “Jason!” Bruce yells, panicked, yanking at the cuffs desperately.
</p><p>
    “Fine. But the cuffs are staying on until—"
</p><p>
    “Okay, okay.”
</p><p>
    And then Jason’s right behind him. “Hey, B,” he says. “Calm the fuck down.”
</p><p>
    “Jason?” Bruce asks, twisting to try and get a look at him.
</p><p>
    “Yeah, it’s me, old man. Hold on.” There’s a click and the cuffs linking
    Bruce’s ankles release. Bruce scrambles to his knees gracelessly, banging
    his head against the cabinets, and then he’s turned around.
</p><p>
    Jason’s crouched down in front of him, alive and awake, but he’s hurt and
    there’s a sick feeling in Bruce’s stomach that’s telling him he did this,
    that the marks on his son were made by Bruce’s hands.
</p><p>
    A noise escapes from his throat that barely sounds human, a terrible
    keening sort of moan. He tries to reach out towards his son, but his hands
    are still cuffed and he moans again, eyes tracking over the bruises
    blooming across Jason’s skin.
</p><p>
    “Hell of a come-down, I know.” Jason’s tone is light, but his voice is
    rough and painful sounding. There’s fresh blood on his face, and the cuts
    on his wrists have reopened. His neck—oh, God, his neck—
</p><p>
    “What—I don’t—why—”
</p><p>
    “Yeah, sorry.” Jason grimaces. “My bad.”
</p><p>
    Bruce shakes his head desperately. Jason shouldn’t be apologizing. He
    shouldn’t—
</p><p>
    “To be honest, I thought—” Jason cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I
    didn’t think it would affect you like that.”
</p><p>
    Bruce just shakes his head again. “Jason,” he says and his voice wavers,
    breaks.
</p><p>
    “Oh fuck,” Jason says and Bruce feels his thrum of panic. “Don’t cry.
    Jesus. Don’t—”
</p><p>
    Bruce’s breath hitches again and he can feel the tears running down his
    face and he just wants to be able to touch Jason, to make sure he’s solid
    and real and <em>alive</em>.
</p><p>
    “Replacement,” Jason is hissing. “Come on, you jackass. Look at him!”
</p><p>
    “Bruce.”
</p><p>
    Bruce blinks at the voice, confused. “Tim?”
</p><p>
    Jason’s gone, and Tim’s crouched in front of him instead. There’s a hard
    look on the boy’s face and Bruce doesn’t understand, he—
</p><p>
    “Why did you hurt Jason?”
</p><p>
    Shaking his head, Bruce swallows hard, manages: “I don’t <em>know</em>. It
    was green and I was so angry and I don’t—”
</p><p>
    “Christ, Tim, just let him go! I told you what happened. It was my fault.”
</p><p>
    “Yeah, like you’re a reliable source in this situation,” Tim mutters, but
    the cuffs click and release Bruce’s hands.
</p><p>
    He wobbles to his feet like a newborn colt and makes a B-line for Jason.
    His hands ghost over his skull, hovering over the fresh bruises starting to
    color the left side of his face, then tugs up his shirt to survey the
    damage to his ribs.
</p><p>
    “Jesus, B,” Jason complains as Bruce shifts his assessment to his battered
    hands. His wrist is sprained, or maybe broken. There’s an outline of
    Bruce’s hand wrapped around it, but Bruce doesn’t remember how it got
    there. “Calm down. This is nowhere near the worst I’ve come away from one
    of our fights.”
</p><p>
    As focused as Bruce is on his son’s injuries, the words take a second to
    register. When they do, his hands still over Jason’s wrist. He looks up
    slowly. “…What?”
</p><p>
    Jason’s expression is hard to read, and he’s not getting anything through
    the link. He doesn’t look upset. Mostly just… amused?
</p><p>
    “Jason,” Bruce says, dread curling in the pit of his stomach. “What do you
    mean?”
</p><p>
    Jason huffs, pulls his hands away to cross his arms over his chest. “I mean
    you’ve worked me over way worse than this,” Jason says, like it’s a fact,
    like it’s barely worth mentioning. “Why are you being weird?”
</p><p>
    Bruce’s eyes slip to the ugly ring of bruises circling Jason’s neck. He
    feels like he can see the outlines of his fingers gaining clarity every
    second. The dark imprints of his thumbs are already stark against the skin
    of Jason’s throat. He can’t have—it doesn’t—
</p><p>
    “When?” he manages through his own tightening throat. “When did—”
</p><p>
    “Are you serious, right now?” Jason says incredulously. “That batarang? And
    the night I shot Penguin?”
</p><p>
    “That was—” Bruce swallows hard. “That was different. I didn’t—You weren’t
    this badly hurt. You were in armor.”
</p><p>
    Jason’s brow creases. Bruce can’t tell the feelings apart. He doesn’t know
    what’s his and what’s Jason’s, there’s just a tangled mess of
    hurt-guilt-anger-grief-pain.
</p><p>
    “I didn’t hurt you this bad,” Bruce repeats. “I’ve <em>never</em> hurt you
    this bad.”
</p><p>
    That was maybe the wrong thing to say. Jason’s jaw clenches tight and Bruce
    feels a faint thrum of that same awful rage, roaring in his head, through
    his chest. “Bullshit,” Jason snaps. He jerks up his chin, exposing the soft
    underside of his throat. There’s a thick, ragged scar there, usually hidden
    by shadow. “I almost bled out that night. I couldn’t talk for weeks. Ra’s
    dragged me back to Nanda Parbat and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it, I
    was so weak.”
</p><p>
    Bruce’s eyes are locked on the scar. He’s shaking his head desperately. He
    didn’t—It wasn’t that deep. He’d just—He’d just grazed him. “I didn’t—”
</p><p>
    “What, you want to see my x-rays, then, old man?” Jason practically spits.
    “They had to put a fucking plate in my skull. I had <em>six seizures.</em>
    One of my ribs was broken in <em>four places.</em> Jesus.” He scrubs a hand
    through his hair, over his face. “Never hurt me this bad, my ass. The fuck
    are you smoking?”
</p><p>
    “You killed Penguin,” Bruce says desperately, grasping for some sense of
    normality.
</p><p>
    Jason just scoffs, crossing his arms again. “Is he dead?”
</p><p>
    “You meant to kill him, you—”
</p><p>
    “No, he didn’t.”
</p><p>
    Bruce jerks his head to the side.
</p><p>
    Dick’s standing inside the doorway.
</p><p>
    ------
</p><p>
    “It’s all just a mess, Alfred,” Dick says after recapping the last few
    days. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel. “I don’t know what
    to do.”
</p><p>
    Alfred is silent for a long while and Dick’s heart sinks. He can’t bring
    himself to look over.
</p><p>
    “Richard,” he says finally. “My dear boy.” The old man takes a deep breath.
    “I am so very sorry. This should not be your burden to carry. The weight of
    this family should not rest on your shoulders nearly so much as it does.”
</p><p>
    Dick swallows, blinking back tears. He can’t cry. He’s driving.
</p><p>
    Alfred just sighs. “I daresay that if we are to have a noon meeting, we had
    better have a noon meal. Would you like to go to the grocer’s with me, or
    shall I drop you at the manor?”
</p><p>
    “I’d love to go with you but…”
</p><p>
    “But you’re worried for your brothers. It’s quite alright.”
</p><p>
    Dick nods tightly, trying to even out his breathing. They’re almost home.
</p><p>
    “You’ll be alright, my dear boy,” Alfred says softly, “and so will your
    brothers. You are all strong, resilient, capable individuals. No matter
    what happens, you will be alright.”
</p><p>
    “Okay,” Dick breathes, pulling into the manor’s long drive. “Okay. Thank
    you.”
</p><p>
    “You are very welcome.”
</p><p>
    Dick stops in front of the house and gets out, then wraps Alfred in a tight
    hug.
</p><p>
    “There, now,” Alfred says calmly, but when he pulls back his eyes are
    shining. “You go check on your brothers. I’ll be back in a jiff to make
    lunch.”
</p><p>
    Dick nods and wipes his eyes. He pulls out his phone as he starts up the
    steps.
</p><p>
    There’s an unread message from Tim, five minutes old.
</p><p>
    <em>Kitchen ASAP. May need to contain B.</em>
</p><p>
    Fuck.
</p><p>
    Dick sprints up the stairs to the door, yanks it open—
</p><p>
    —skids to a halt to avoid bowling over his littlest brother.
</p><p>
    “They’re in the kitchen,” Damian says. He looks pale. Shaken. “Drake says
    the situation is under control for the moment and calm must be maintained.”
</p><p>
    Okay. That’s—better than he was expecting. He pulls Dami into a tight hug.
    “Are you okay?”
</p><p>
    “Tt.” The boy doesn’t pull away. “I am fine. Go to the kitchen.”
</p><p>
    Dick frowns. “Are you—”
</p><p>
    “I will not join you,” Damian says stiffly. “I do not desire to see Father
    in—in his current state. And my presence is unnecessary.”
</p><p>
    “Okay,” Dick says softly. “Okay, Dami. It’s going to be alright, okay?”
</p><p>
    Damian nods once, sharp. “Go.”
</p><p>
    Dick goes. When he gets to the kitchen, he seriously reconsiders lowering
    his opinion of Tim’s judgement. This is not what he would call ‘under
    control.’
</p><p>
    Jason and Bruce are face to face in front of the island and Dick nearly
    chokes when he sees the blood on Jason’s face, the darkening handprints
    curled around his neck. Jason’s yelling—
</p><p>
    “—a fucking plate in my skull. I had <em>six seizures.</em> One of my—
</p><p>
    —and Bruce looks like he’s about to collapse or maybe start sobbing—
</p><p>
    “—ribs was broken in <em>four places</em>—”
</p><p>
    —and Tim is staring at the scene wide-eyed. He glances away as Dick steps
    through the door and nearly melts in relief.
</p><p>
    “Jesus,” Jason swears, scrubbing a hand through his hair, over his face.
    “Never hurt me this bad, my ass. The fuck are you smoking?”
</p><p>
    “You killed Penguin,” Bruce says, and Dick knows that’s not true, Bruce
    knows that’s not true.
</p><p>
    “Is he dead?” Dick wants to shake Jason by the shoulders, scream in his
    face: just tell him. Just fucking tell him.
</p><p>
    “You meant to kill him, you—”
</p><p>
    “No, he didn’t,” Dick says, because he can’t let this stand, he can’t let
    Jason keep this secret, not when it’s tearing them all further apart.
</p><p>
    Bruce turns to look at him, eyes wide and wild. Dick ignores him, looks at
    Jason instead.
</p><p>
    “It was a blank,” Dick says. “Barbara checked the records.”
</p><p>
    “How—” Bruce sounds wrecked. Dick doesn’t look at him. He can’t.
</p><p>
    “The important question here,” Tim interjects. “Is why? The cameras, the
    gun, the whole thing was set up to make it look like you killed Penguin.
    Why?”
</p><p>
    “Does it matter?” Jason snaps.
</p><p>
    “It might,” Tim says levelly.
</p><p>
    “Jason?” Bruce asks and Jason looks up to meet his gaze for a moment, then
    down at the floor. “Please. I don’t—I don’t understand.”
</p><p>
    Jason stares at the floor for a long moment, jaw working, then exhales
    slowly. “I was getting closer to—to being part of the team, I guess. Part
    of the family. And wanted—” He shakes his head, lips thin. “I needed to
    know if it was real. If you actually trusted me, even a little. Or if
    nothing had really changed and…” Jason’s shoulders lift half-heartedly,
    then slump.
</p><p>
    “It was a test,” Tim says.
</p><p>
    Jason scowls, eyes still fixed on the floor. “That makes it sound shitty. I
    just needed to know.”
</p><p>
“A leap of faith, then,” Dick says quietly, heart plummeting. <em>And we didn’t catch you.</em>
</p><p>
    “A leap of faith,” Jason echoes. “Yeah. I guess. Only Artemis and Bizarro
    were my net and—” His voice dies. “Well. I’m lucky Roy was in town.” He
    shakes his head, shoulders tense. “I didn’t think it was going to go down
    like that. I thought—I thought it would be a trip to Arkham, and Artemis
    and Biz were going to get me out before I was ever even in a cell, and then
    we’d just—” He falls silent, shakes his head again.
</p><p>
    Jesus.
</p><p>
    “Jason,” Bruce manages, his voice mangled and barely coherent. He reaches
    out and Jason takes a swift step to the side, out of reach.
</p><p>
    “I can’t do this,” he says forcefully. “I can’t—”
</p><p>
    “Jason—” Bruce tries again.
</p><p>
    “NO.” He’s shaking his head furiously. His eyes are—have they always been
    that green? “You don’t just get to decide to talk. I wanted to talk a
    fucking year ago and you tried to <em>beat me to death</em> instead, you
    psychopathic piece of shit—”
</p><p>
    Bruce’s posture is shifting into something that sends chills down Dick’s
    spine. His mouth twists into a feral sort of snarl and Dick steps forward,
    hackles raised, but Tim pushes past him.
</p><p>
    “Stop! Stop it! Jason, what are you doing?”
</p><p>
    Jason flinches. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and the aggression
    melts out of Bruce’s stance like ice in the summer heat. He shakes his head
    like a dog in the rain, eyes clouded with confusion.
</p><p>
    “What the fuck was that?” Dick asks, his voice sounding hysterical even to
    his own ears.
</p><p>
    Jason just stares at the floor, jaw clenched tight.
</p><p>
    “That was the Lazarus Pit,” Tim says quietly, eyes locked on Jason’s face.
    “Wasn’t it?”
</p><p>
    Another flinch. Bruce gives one last, full-body shake, then lurches to the
    sink.
</p><p>
    “Yeah,” Jason says over the sound of retching. “Yeah, that’s the Pit.”
</p><p>
    “When?” Dick asks, feeling numb. “How?”
</p><p>
    “Talia chucked me in a while after I woke up,” Jason says, voice clipped.
</p><p>
    “Why?” Tim asks. He’s standing right in front of Jason, like he’s trying to
    get him to look up.
</p><p>
    Jason shifts uneasily, then glances up at the younger boy. “Honestly?” he
    says. “Pretty sure she wanted me to kill you. And then she wanted Dick to
    kill me.”
</p><p>
    “What.”
</p><p>
    Dick’s head jerks around at the sound. Fuck. “Dami—”
</p><p>
    “No,” Damian snaps, eyes flashing dangerously. “Repeat that, Todd. What did
    my mother want you to do?”
</p><p>
    Jason’s shoulders are tense. He looks at Dick, eyes panicky. “I swear I
    didn’t know he was there. I wouldn’t have—”
</p><p>
    “I am not a child,” Damian snarls, stalking up to Jason and pushing Tim out
    of his way. “How do you know my mother? Why did she wish for you to kill
    Drake?”
</p><p>
    Jason just shakes his head, lips pressed together.
</p><p>
    Damian lashes out faster than Dick can react to, the heel of his palm
    slamming into Jason’s ribs. “ANSWER ME!” he screams, and Dick grabs him
    around the middle, hauling him away, but it’s too late. Jason goes down
    hard, smacking his head against the floor.
</p><p>
    Bruce starts vomiting into the sink again, Damian’s screaming in
    indecipherable Arabic, Jason’s gasping on the floor while Tim tries to
    coach him through getting air back into his lungs, Dick’s pretty sure he 
    can feel tears rolling down his cheeks, and that’s when Babs, Steph, and 
    Cass come in.
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Btw, I have no idea if the 'Jason shot Penguin with a blank' thing is canon, but considering he shot him in the face and he lived?? I'm gonna say it's canon.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Jason,” Tim interrupts. “The meeting’s not about the Pit. It’s about how Bruce’s been treating you.”<br/> </p>
<p>Jason shoots him a confused look.<br/> </p>
<p>“Babs found footage from your fight the night you shot Penguin. Hospital records, too.”<br/> </p>
<p>Silence hangs heavy in the cave for a long moment. “Tim,” Jason says finally, voice flat. “I don’t want to talk about that shit.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*shows up 3 weeks late with starbucks*<br/> </p>
<p>It's been a hell of a month, but here you go: the second to last chapter.<br/> </p>
<p>There's a couple deviations from canon (I think?):<br/> </p>
<p>1) Talia did not and will not ever sleep with Jason (because wtf, he is your baby daddy's SON),<br/>2) we're ignoring any batkids/batkids-adjacent that show up after Cas/Damian (because Bruce should not be adopting any more children, he can't take care of the ones he HAS),<br/>3) Talia didn't have anything to do with Damian's death (because I honestly don't think it's possible to write coherent character motivations for Talia if that's included, wtf were they thinking), and<br/>4) Roy Harper is Not Dead (because I say so (and so that Jason can have one (1) person who's always on his side, Jesus Christ this poor kid))<br/> </p>
<p>Two quick comments:<br/> </p>
<p>1) Jason sometimes says some fucked up shit that isn't necessarily 1) healthy, b) accurate, 3) even fucking real (one of these days, he's going to realize he was having auditory hallucinations in Arkham and it's going to be Not Pretty) or iv) anything he actually believes: he's prone to lashing out when he's hurt and it bites him in the ass sometimes<br/>2) Bruce is a fuck-up, but he's TRYING</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
    “This fucking family,” Steph says, equal parts exasperated and incredulous.
    “I swear to God.”
</p>
<p>
    “TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW!” Damian demands loudly, three inches from Dick’s
    ear. He nearly loses his grip as the boy writhes angrily, but Steph strides
    over and, faced with superior numbers, Damian mostly gives up on escape in
    favor of screaming incoherently, giving Dick a second to breathe and glance
    around the room. Jason is still on the floor, Tim is crouched over him
    checking his ribs, Cass is guiding Bruce into a chair, then turning back to
    help Tim with Jason—
</p>
<p>
    “What is the meaning of this? Damian Wayne, stop that noise this instant!”
</p>
<p>
    And there’s Alfred.
</p>
<p>
    Damian stops screaming. Tim and Cass haul Jason to his feet. Once they
    deposit him into a chair, his eyes land on Alfred almost immediately.
</p>
<p>
    “Hey, Alfie,” Jason says unsteadily, “it’s been,” pausing to wheeze a
    breath between every few words, “a while.” He’s looking up at Alfred with
    something halfway between adoration and bewilderment, but his eyes aren’t
    focusing right, and Dick feels panic welling up in his chest. How hard did
    he hit his head?
</p>
<p>
    Alfred’s face softens immediately, and he steps over to stand in front of
    his injured grandson. “Master Jason,” he says, voice soft and fond and
    terribly sad. “What’ve you done to yourself now?”
</p>
<p>
    And that’s all it takes to tip Jason over the edge. Tears start rolling
    down his face, his breath hitches, and his shoulders start to shake. “Alf,”
    he manages between wheezing sobs.
</p>
<p>
    “Oh, my dear boy,” Alfred says, cradling Jason’s bruised and bleeding face
    in his hands, “how I’ve missed you.” He looks up at Tim. “Master Timothy,
    would you please ring Dr. Thompkins? I believe we are in need of her
    services.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason’s still crying, so Alfred pulls his head forward and Jason buries his
    face in Alfred’s white shirt as the old man cards his fingers through his
    hair and murmurs soothingly.
</p>
<p>
    “Leslie’s on her way,” Tim says. “She’ll be here in fifteen. Says to get
    him cleaned up as much as we can before that.”
</p>
<p>
    “Very well,” Alfred says. “Jason,” he says gently. “I need to prepare
    lunch. Who would you like to accompany you to the cave for medical
    attention?”
</p>
<p>
    “Bruce,” Jason says immediately, voice thick and muffled by Alfred’s shirt.
</p>
<p>
    “Other than Master Bruce,” Alfred says, an edge to his voice that wasn’t
    there before. “Two others.”
</p>
<p>
    “…Tim.”
</p>
<p>
    “Alright. One more. Master Richard?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason shakes his head, managing a garbled, “fuck no.” Dick flinches,
    pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes tightly. A gentle hand
    tugs one away and laces his fingers with their own.
</p>
<p>
    Babs. Dick glances at her quickly, then looks away. He hasn’t talked to her
    yet and he should, but he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want the way she
    looks at him to change, but he fucked up, Jesus, he fucked up. God, he’s so
    fucking selfish—
</p>
<p>
    “I’ll go,” Stephanie says, interrupting Dick’s spiraling thoughts.
</p>
<p>
    Alfred levels an assessing look at her, lips pressed thin. “Miss
    Stephanie?” he asks Jason.
</p>
<p>
    The younger man shrugs nearly imperceptibly. “Miss Stephanie,” Alfred
    decides. “Go on, now. You must get those injuries tended to.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason heaves a long, shuddering breath and then nods, pulling back. “Alf,”
    he croaks. “Your shirt.”
</p>
<p>
    “It’s quite alright, my boy,” Alfred says, not even glancing at the
    blood-stained button-down. “I’ve always disliked this one.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason just nods blearily, and Dick doesn’t understand why he’s accepting
    the obvious lie, he doesn’t—
</p>
<p>
    Jason tries to stand and nearly falls over.
</p>
<p>
    Jesus.
</p>
<p>
    “Easy,” Tim says, catching him. “Easy, big guy.”
</p>
<p>
    “B,” Jason says, a little desperately. “B.”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m here,” Bruce says, suddenly right at Jason’s side.
</p>
<p>
    “What’s,” Jason swallows, “wrong with me?”
</p>
<p>
    “Your head,” Bruce says gently, voice thick. “You hit your head again.”
</p>
<p>
    “Oh,” he says.
</p>
<p>
    Stephanie ducks under his other arm to help Tim, and then they’re moving.
</p>
<p>
    “Oof,” Steph huffs. “You weigh like eight hundred pounds.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason mumbles something Dick can’t make out, but a startled laugh bursts
    out of Tim as they make their way out of the room and towards the cave,
    Bruce trailing after them.
</p>
<p>
    “If you would be so kind,” Alfred says, pulling Dick’s attention back to
    the room, “to bring in the groceries from the car, I will go change and
    then prepare lunch. Miss Gordon, I’ve been told you have a presentation
    prepared? Feel free to set up wherever you believe is best.”
</p>
<p>
    ------
</p>
<p>
    Bruce ends up carrying Jason. He’s too tall and too heavy for Tim and Steph
    to manage easily, especially when his balance is so off. And he’s quickly
    running out of oxygen.
</p>
<p>
    “Thought you said,” Jason wheezes, “you were,” Tim starts looking for an
    oxygen tank, “too old to,” he’s going to better organize the medical area,
    this is ridiculous, “carry me,” Bruce sets him down on the stretcher, “old
    man?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce shushes him gently. “Don’t try to talk. Tim?”
</p>
<p>
    “Got it!” Tim drags the tank over and adjusts the output, then holds an
    oxygen mask to Jason’s face.
</p>
<p>
    The older boy reaches up to bat at Tim’s hand weakly, but Bruce laces their
    fingers together instead. He murmurs something that Tim can’t make out.
</p>
<p>
    “It’s alright,” Bruce says. “It’s alright, Jay. I’m here.”
</p>
<p>
    Steph drops some supplies on a nearby cart and they get to work cleaning up
    as much as they can before Leslie gets there.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce starts cleaning the blood off his face. Steph unwraps the ruined
    bandages and splints from his hands. Tim cuts the black sweatshirt he’s
    wearing off of him to get a look at his ribs.
</p>
<p>
    “<em>Christ</em>,” Steph swears when she sees the mottled layers of
    bruising. “Who the fuck did he fight, Killer Crock?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce flinches hard, his hand jerking away from Jason’s bruised and swollen
    face. He mutters something incomprehensible and retreats to the storage
    cabinets.
</p>
<p>
    “He fought Bruce,” Tim says, low enough so the older man shouldn’t be able
    to hear. “Or, well. Bruce fought him. Twice.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jesus.”
</p>
<p>
    “To be fair,” Tim glances to make sure Bruce is still rummaging in the
    cabinets, “the second time wasn’t really Bruce’s fault. And the concussion
    was partially Damian.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jesus,” Steph repeats.
</p>
<p>
    “I told you it was ugly.”
</p>
<p>
    “B?” Jason mutters, brow crinkling in concern. He tries to push himself up
    on his elbows when Bruce doesn’t answer. “B!”
</p>
<p>
    “He’s fine, Jason. Lie back down.”
</p>
<p>
    “B?” He pushes against Tim’s hands, the oxygen mask pulled away from his
    face. “Bruce!”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m here.” Bruce’s voice sounds like he’s been gargling broken glass. It’s
    nearly as bad as Jason’s. “I’m here, Jaylad, what’s wrong?”
</p>
<p>
    “You okay?” Jason asks, slumping back onto the stretcher.
</p>
<p>
    “I’m fine,” Bruce says, tugging the oxygen mask back over Jason’s face.
    “I’m here.”
</p>
<p>
    So is Leslie. “Sitrep,” she barks as she strides through the doors.
</p>
<p>
    Tim complies automatically. “Multiple blows to the head, damage to the rib
    cage, strangulation injuries, damage to the left wrist, and probably a lot
    else we missed.”
</p>
<p>
    “Turn on the CT scanner,” Leslie orders. “Then get out of my way.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim turns on the machine and he and Steph step back, but Bruce doesn’t
    move.
</p>
<p>
    “Bruce,” Leslie snaps, “Out of the way.”
</p>
<p>
    “Leslie,” he says, and Tim doesn’t know if he’s ever heard him sound so
    wrecked. “Please.”
</p>
<p>
    “Tim, Steph,” she says. “Get him back.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce makes a choked noise but tugs his hand away from Jason’s and moves
    back. Almost instantly, Jason’s calm vanishes.
</p>
<p>
    “B?” he calls out, shoving himself upright.
</p>
<p>
    “Jason Peter Todd,” Leslie snaps, but he doesn’t listen at all.
</p>
<p>
    “B!” he calls frantically, and Bruce is crying silently, great heaving sobs
    shaking his broad shoulders.
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Leslie tries again, softer.
</p>
<p>
    Jason turns to look at her. “Leslie?”
</p>
<p>
    “Bruce is fine. But I need to take a look at your injuries, so he needs to
    step away.”
</p>
<p>
    “Oh,” Jason says, voice small. “Okay. B?”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m here,” Bruce manages.
</p>
<p>
    “You okay?”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m fine.”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay,” Jason says, a bit more clarity in his voice. “Okay. Take a nap, old
    man.”
</p>
<p>
    Leslie presses a hand to his chest to push him back onto the stretcher and
    he goes down without protest.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce lays down on the next stretcher over, on his side so he has a direct
    line of sight. “You can’t give him anything,” he tells Leslie. “We’re under
    a spell. Don’t know everything it does yet. Can’t risk drugs.”
</p>
<p>
    “Got it,” the doctor says. “Making things difficult, as per usual.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim and Steph give her more space, retreating further back and hopping up
    on one of the workbenches to wait.
</p>
<p>
    “When you said ugly,” Stephanie says finally, pitched low enough only he
    can hear. “This is not what I expected.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim huffs a humorless laugh. “Yeah. It’s been a shitty couple days.”
</p>
<p>
    “Recap me.”
</p>
<p>
    Exhaling audibly, Tim nods. He starts all the way at the beginning, from
    when Bruce first dragged Jason out of the Batmobile’s trunk.
</p>
<p>
    “Well, fuck,” Steph says when he’s done. “You could’ve called. Cass and I
    would’ve come to back you up.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim shrugs. “I didn’t want to crowd him. He’s tense enough around me and
    Damian, and he knows you guys even less.”
</p>
<p>
    Steph hums, noncommittal. “He used to bring me waffles, sometimes,” she
    says, almost reluctantly, and Tim jerks to look at her, surprised. “Before
    Bruce disowned him or whatever. We ran into each other once at a diner and
    after that, he’d stop by sometimes with waffles if he knew I was stressed,
    during midterms or finals or whatever.”
</p>
<p>
    “You never said anything.”
</p>
<p>
    Steph shrugs. “He never stayed. Most of the time I never even saw him.
    They’d just be in my fridge when I got back from patrol. Everybody was
    always so paranoid about him, I figured you’d think he was threatening me
    or something, by breaking in. I didn’t want him to get hassled for it. They
    were good waffles.”
</p>
<p>
    “Did Cass know?”
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah,” Steph says. “She tried to approach him a couple times on patrol.
    Curious, I think. But he avoided her like the plague. Cass says he’s afraid
    of her.”
</p>
<p>
    Cass is, objectively, terrifying, but the idea of being afraid of her still
    throws Tim for a loop.
</p>
<p>
    “I know, right? Hard to wrap your head around. She said he must’ve spent
    time with the League. He called her that weird name they have for her.”
</p>
<p>
    The One Who is All. Yeah, that tracks.
</p>
<p>
    Leslie’s finishing up the scan. Almost done, then.
</p>
<p>
    “Still hard for me to picture Bruce doing that,” Steph says, eyes locked on
    Jason. “I get that it wasn’t, like, really him, but. Still.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim swallows. He thinks about Jason’s defensive posture, the way he said:
    <em>
        you’ve worked me over way worse than this, why are you being weird?
    </em>
    “I think we’re going to have to get used to the idea.”
</p>
<p>
    Steph looks troubled, but Tim doesn’t have any reassurances to give her.
    “Looks like Leslie’s finishing up,” she says finally. “I’m going to head
    back upstairs. Make sure everybody’s filled in.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim nods and she hops down from the bench. “Good idea. Check on Dick for
    me?”
</p>
<p>
    His phone buzzes as she walks away. Speak of the devil.
</p>
<p>
    <em>Ready whenever</em>
</p>
<p>
    <em>Eta?</em>
</p>
<p>
    <em>Almost done</em>
</p>
<p>
    “No fighting,” Leslie is saying, looming over Jason. “No running. No
    motorcycles. If I thought for a second you’d do it, I’d tell you to stay in
    bed.”
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah, yeah—”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m serious, Jason,” Leslie says, intense. “You’re damn lucky you don’t
    have serious brain damage. You hit your head again before it heals? Say
    goodbye to higher motor functions.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason doesn’t answer, but he nods stiffly and somehow that satisfies
    Leslie.
</p>
<p>
    “Try to be careful with your vocal chords. You can talk, but don’t sing.
    Don’t yell. You’ve got enough scar tissue that permanent vocal damage is
    something to worry about.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason nods again and Leslie stares at him for a second, then sighs, drops a
    hand onto his shoulder.
</p>
<p>
    “It’s good to see you, Jay,” she says softly, and Tim feels very
    uncomfortable listening in all of a sudden. “Stop by sometime when you
    aren’t grievously injured.”
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah,” Jason rasps quietly. “Yeah, okay.”
</p>
<p>
    Once Leslie packs up and heads out. Jason stretches his battered body back
    out on the angled stretcher. He lies perfectly still, head tipped back to
    stare at the cave’s dark ceiling. Something about it reminds Tim of the way
    he sat in the cell, at the beginning of all this, covered in his own blood.
    The stillness had unsettled him then, and it still does, but it’s a
    different kind of unsettling. He looks sad, Tim realizes, when he holds
    still. It’s a bone-deep sad, the kind that hooks in and drags you down
    surer than lead. Tim wonders how long he’s looked like that, how long he’s
    been drowning without anyone realizing.
</p>
<p>
    He wonders what it says about them, that they never even took a second
    look.
</p>
<p>
    “We should head upstairs,” Tim says eventually, voice echoing harshly in
    the silent cave.
</p>
<p>
    “Nah. B’s sleeping.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim glances at the stretcher Bruce is lying on, motionless. “We called a
    meeting. Everyone’s waiting.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason shifts, just slightly. “A meeting about what?” Tim doesn’t answer.
    Jason sits up. “If it’s about the Pit,” he says slowly. “I can control it.
    This morning, I just—it’s stupid, but I did it on purpose—”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Tim interrupts. “The meeting’s not about the Pit. It’s about how
    Bruce’s been treating you.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason shoots him a confused look.
</p>
<p>
    “Babs found footage from your fight the night you shot Penguin. Hospital
    records, too.”
</p>
<p>
    Silence hangs heavy in the cave for a long moment. “Tim,” Jason says
    finally, voice flat. “I don’t want to talk about that shit.”
</p>
<p>
    “That’s okay,” Tim assures him. “You don’t have to say anything if you
    don’t want to.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason’s shaking his head. “This is—” Jason falters, and something desperate
    and scared and very, very young makes it on to his face for a second before
    he shuts it down. “This is the best Bruce and I have gotten along since
    before I died,” he says harshly. “I can’t—I don’t want—”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Tim says, trying to be gentle but having a hard time not leaning
    into incredulous. “He beat the shit out of you three days ago.”
</p>
<p>
    “And?” Jason says defensively. “We’re <em>talking</em>—”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason, Damian <em>lives here</em>.”
</p>
<p>
    He scoffs. “Come on, he wouldn’t hurt Damian.”
</p>
<p>
“Do you know that? Because four days ago, I would’ve said he’d never hurt    <em>you</em>. Not like that.”
</p>
<p>
    “He didn’t—”
</p>
<p>
    “If you try and tell me he didn’t hurt you that bad, Jason, so help me.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason pauses for a moment, then says: “He knows I can take it, that’s all.
    He wouldn’t—”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Tim interrupts, feeling slightly ill, “come on. You know this
    isn’t right. I know it’s hard and I know you’re scared, but we have to talk
    about this. We have to.”
</p>
<p>
    After a long minute, voice small, Jason says: “Do I have to be there?”
</p>
<p>
    Tim frowns. “Well,” he says. “Bruce definitely does, so.”
</p>
<p>
    There are deep lines of tension around his eyes when Jason finally nods.
    “Okay,” he says, so quiet that Tim almost doesn’t hear him. “Okay,” he
    repeats, a little louder, then takes a deep breath and eases off the
    stretcher and onto his feet.
</p>
<p>
    “Hey, old man,” he says softly, nudging Bruce’s shoulder. “Up and at ‘em.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce blinks awake slowly, eyes settling on Jason’s face for a moment, then
    glancing around the cave before landing on Tim. “Meeting?” he asks him.
</p>
<p>
    Tim nods. “Everybody’s ready upstairs.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce gets to his feet, scrubs a hand through his unwashed hair. “Is Alfred
    join—?” Bruce cuts himself off, glances worriedly towards Jason.
</p>
<p>
    “What?” Jason says impassively. He’s holding himself stiffly. He must be in
    a lot of pain.
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah,” Tim answers. “Alfred’s joining.”
</p>
<p>
    “Can we just get this over with?” Jason snaps.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce winces almost imperceptibly, but nods. “Let’s go.”
</p>
<p>
    ------
</p>
<p>
    Everybody is waiting in the small family dining room off the kitchen. It’s
    a good spot. A relaxing spot for most of them. Tim thought that would
    include Jason, but he’s tense and jumpy looking when he takes the seat Dick
    ushers him to, nearly as far away from Bruce as possible, so maybe not.
</p>
<p>
    Nothing they can do about it now. They eat in silence, tension thick in the
    air. When everyone’s done and the table’s cleared, Barbara hands out
    mismatched tablets to everyone except Jason. She must’ve figured he doesn’t
    need or want to look at his own medical records.
</p>
<p>
    “Is everybody caught up on the current situation?” Tim asks.
</p>
<p>
    “Yes,” Cass says. “Magic leash. Bruce feels Jason’s pain.”
</p>
<p>
    “’Bout sums it up.” It’s the sort of line Dick would normally laugh more
    than speak, but his attempt at his infamous megawatt smile barely lasts a
    second and is more of a grimace than a grin.
</p>
<p>
    Tim clears his throat. “Alright, let’s go then. Barbara?”
</p>
<p>
    The redhead nods at Tim, looking just as grim as Dick. She opens her mouth
    to start, but she’s cut off before she gets a single word out.
</p>
<p>
    “I have a question for Todd.”
</p>
<p>
    “Damian—”
</p>
<p>
    “No, Grayson,” the kid snaps. “I was told this meeting was called to clear
    up miscommunication and a lack of forthrightness within the family. Is that
    not our purpose?”
</p>
<p>
    Tim glances at Dick and Babs for direction, but neither of them looks
    prepared to answer. “Yes,” Tim says. “In a sense, I guess that’s the point
    of this.”
</p>
<p>
    Damian nods sharply. “Then I have an issue I would like to address.” He
    turns his head, looking down the table towards Jason. “Todd, what was the
    meaning of the statement you made this morning?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason, who’d been fiddling with the cuffs of his sweatshirt, looks up with
    guarded eyes. He glances at Bruce, then Dick.
</p>
<p>
    “I have a right to know,” Damian says sharply, shutting down the protest
    Dick was no doubt preparing. “My mother is… a complicated woman. I have
    understood that for a long time.” When this is met with further silence,
    Damian bristles in irritation, his eyes flashing. “So our purpose is not
    forthrightness then?”
</p>
<p>
    “Listen, kid,” Jason says awkwardly. “I wouldn’t have said it like that if
    I’d known you were there—"
</p>
<p>
    Damian hisses something in Arabic and Jason cuts himself off. He glances at
    Bruce and Dick again.
</p>
<p>
    Before either of them has a chance to respond, Cass speaks up. “No lies,”
    she says quietly. “No secrets.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason looks to Bruce again. The older man nods stiffly.
</p>
<p>
        “Fine,” Jason says, crossing his arms over his chest. He stares at the
        table, brow furrowed, like he’s finding a place to start. Finally, he
        says: “I came out of the Lazarus Pit more than half mad. I wanted
        blood. I wanted <em>Bruce’s </em>blood.” His gaze flicks up to Damian
        for a moment, then back to the table.
    “I didn’t realize then, ‘cause I didn’t know about Damian, but Talia
    couldn’t risk me managing to kill Batman. She needed to get Damian away
    from Ra’s, ASAP, and Bruce is the only one who could keep him safe. I don’t
    know any of this for sure, obviously. It’s not like Talia is much of a
    sharer. But I’ve got two theories. Number one, she was trying to buy time.
        The Pit rage fades, eventually. So, she sent me off to train, tried to
        help me gain some control.
</p>
<p>
    “She could’ve killed me, instead. Probably should’ve. But she took care of
    me for a long time before the Pit. I guess she got… attached.” Jason shrugs
    awkwardly, gaze still fixed on the table. “She stalled my return to Gotham
    as long as she could, but I got impatient. So, she gave me more targets.
    Crime Alley, first. Then Tim. It wasn’t—” Jason huffs, agitated. “I don’t
    think she wanted him dead. Or me, or Dick. She was just . . . desperate.
    She had to get Damian away from Ra’s. She couldn’t stop me altogether
    without killing me, but if she could tie me up brawling with Tim and Dick,
    she gave Bruce time to figure out how to bring me around. It was easy to
    get me to go after Tim first, I was already foaming at the mouth at the
    thought of him in that costume. I figure the Red Hood gear was to increase
    the chances of Dick coming after me. He’d already shown he’d retaliate with
    extreme prejudice when Joker and Tim were involved.
</p>
<p>
    “She must’ve gambled that taking over Crime Alley would give me enough time
    that I wouldn’t straight-up murder Tim. She was right, but it also meant
    I’d lost my nerve when it came to—” Jason clears his throat. “Well. It
    worked out alright, in the end. I didn’t kill Bruce. Damian had family
    enough to protect him from Ra’s.”
</p>
<p>
    After a moment of heavy silence, Tim prompts: “And after?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason’s jaw clenches. “Talia wasn’t impressed with the hole I tore through
    Gotham, but Ra’s was. He doesn’t respect brutality like he does
    intelligence, but I guess he thought I could be useful. He took me back to
    Nanda Parbat, and Talia used the distraction to get Damian out. Ra’s was .
    . . displeased.” Jason swallows hard, looking vaguely ill. He looks up,
    locking eyes with Damian. “I don’t blame her. You needed to get out of
    there. The League is hell for anyone, but kids?” He shakes his head, brow
    furrowed. “She came back, after you were safe. That’s more than she ever
    owed me.”
</p>
<p>
    “Why didn’t she just tell me?” Bruce manages, voice tight.
</p>
<p>
    Jason huffs. “Any indication that she planned to send Damian to you and
    Ra’s would’ve killed her. She’s not stupid.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce lowers his gaze back to the table, eyes troubled.
</p>
<p>
    “So what you said before,” Dick says slowly, “about you killing Tim and me
    killing you?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason curls in on himself slightly, black and white hair falling over his
    forehead. “When Talia last saw me,” he says, “when she sent me to Gotham, I
    was insane. I was barely human. If—” his voice cracks, and he swallows,
    starts again, “If it were me, with a kid’s, <em>my kid’s</em>, life on the
    line, and I was counting on his father to protect him, I’d have taken one
    look at how this other kid of his ended up, and I think I would’ve tried to
    teach him a lesson.”
</p>
<p>
    He stops, taking a few deep breathes and drinking some water in small sips.
    He really shouldn’t be talking this much, Tim thinks, not with the damage
    to his throat. But there’s no way Tim’s going to make him stop now. He
    looks like he needs to get this out.
</p>
<p>
    “So,” Jason continues after a minute. “Theory two: Talia doesn’t count on
    the Pit fading. How I was when I left, I would’ve beaten Tim to death
    without a second thought. If you didn’t know who was under the helmet,” he
    says, glancing up at Dick, “and the Red Hood had dropped Tim’s mutilated
    body on your doorstep, can you honestly say you wouldn’t have tried to kill
    me for it?”
</p>
<p>
    “Jesus,” Dick breathes, looking pale.
</p>
<p>
    “I doubt I would’ve won that fight,” Jason admits. “So, Bruce buries
    another Robin. And re-buries me. And maybe when Damian shows up in Gotham,
    there isn’t another Robin. Maybe there’s never another Robin. Theory two
    is: Talia saw what happened to me and decided Damian would never be safe in
    Gotham unless Bruce was traumatized enough to retire Robin, once and for
    all.”
</p>
<p>
    Horrified silence fills the room. Jason just slouches into his seat, eyes
    locked on the table. Bruce is frozen, staring at Jason with wide eyes.
</p>
<p>
    Tim swallows. Wets his lips. “Which theory,” he asks Jason, “do you
    believe?”
</p>
<p>
    “Depends on how shitty of a day I’m having,” Jason jokes, but he looks up
    to meet Tim’s gaze after a beat and admits: “The first one. I may not be
    the sharpest tool in the shed, but I’m self-aware enough to know when I’m
    probably projecting.” He looks back down at the table. “Talia’s not stupid,
    and she’s not Ra’s, either. She wants Damian safe, sure, but she fuckin’
    loves that kid. She wants him to be happy, too. And that doesn’t happen if
    the manor’s filled with ghosts. If he’s anything like his parents, it
    doesn’t happen if he’s sitting around twiddling his thumbs all day,
    either.” He shakes his head, expression unreadable, then looks at Damian.
    “So. Sorry for saying shit about your mom, kid. I was having a moment.”
</p>
<p>
    The room is silent for a heavy, lingering second, then Damian clicks his
    tongue. “You are forgiven, Todd. My thanks,” he says, voice perfectly even,
    “for your forthrightness.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason just grunts, eyes back on the table.
</p>
<p>
    “Okay,” Tim says after another, more awkward silence. “Is there anything
    else anyone wants to bring up, or can we get started?” More silence.
    “Okay,” Tim repeats. “Uh, Babs?”
</p>
<p>
    Barbara clears her throat. “Right. Okay. So, for anyone who didn’t already
    know, this meeting was, yes, called to get everyone on the same page, but
    mostly on Bruce’s use of excessive force against Jason.”
</p>
<p>
    A low murmur rises up from the room.
</p>
<p>
    “We’ve collected footage and hospital records from various confrontations
    over the last few years. The tablets are synched; they’ll show evidence as
    it comes up. We’re going to start with the night Jason shot Penguin, as
    there are a few misconceptions we need to clear up. One, despite what the
    footage appears to show, Jason did not kill Oswald Cobblepot that night and
    did not intend to. The round fired was a blank. If Jason would like to
    disclose the reason for this choice, now would—”
</p>
<p>
    Face buried in his arms, now folded into a makeshift pillow on the table,
    Jason flips her off without bothering to look up.
</p>
<p>
    “Never mind, then,” Babs says dryly. “On your tablets, you’ll see
    Cobblepot’s medical records. Surface level damage only, barely nicked his
    skull. Next, intake photos from a hospital in Arizona, taken the day after
    the incident. The patient in the photos is Jason, and the recent injuries
    are those he sustained that night.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim is suddenly very grateful to whoever made the decision not to give
    Jason a tablet. Nobody needs to look at photos like that of themselves.
</p>
<p>
    “Next,” Barbara says. “You’ll find footage of the fight itself.”
</p>
<p>
    It’s brutal from the start, but Tim was expecting that. From the sounds
    some of the others are making, they weren’t.
</p>
<p>
    “Master Jason,” Alfred says, almost reproachful. When Tim looks up, Jason
    isn’t feigning sleep anymore. He’s standing at Alfred’s shoulder, instead,
    reaching for his tablet.
</p>
<p>
    “Alfred,” he says, voice low and hoarse and a little desperate.
</p>
<p>
    “I think I can handle a bit of security footage,” Alfred insists.
</p>
<p>
    “Alfred, please,” Jason says, strained. On the screen, Bruce’s fist
    shatters Jason’s helmet, sending him sprawling. “He’s your <em>son</em>.”
</p>
<p>
    Alfred doesn’t move.
</p>
<p>
    “Alfie.” Jason’s voice breaks. Bruce’s boot slams into Jason’s side.
    “Please, don’t watch this.”
</p>
<p>
    As long as Tim’s known him, Alfred’s always been a collected sort of man.
    Reserved. But he’s upset, now. There’s a terrible look on his face that’s
    not quite anger and not quite grief and not quite nausea, although he’s
    nearly green.
</p>
<p>
    “Alright,” he says, eyes still glued to the tablet. Jason yanks it out of
    his grip in an instant, turning the screen away. “Alright,” he repeats,
    voice quiet. “Would you rather I go do some gardening, then?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason nods once, throat working. “Please.”
</p>
<p>
    “Alright,” he says one more time, then stands up, rests a trembling hand on
    Jason’s shoulder for a moment, and walks out.
</p>
<p>
    “Whoever thought it was a good idea to let him see that,” Jason says
    viciously, “is a fucking moron.”
</p>
<p>
    Tim swallows. He glances wide-eyed at Babs, who looks equally stricken. “I
    should’ve warned him,” she agrees.
</p>
<p>
    Jason growls, low in his throat, but just drops into Alfred’s empty seat.
</p>
<p>
    “You should’ve let him watch it.” It’s the first thing Bruce’s said since
    they started.
</p>
<p>
    “Fuck off,” Jason snaps.
</p>
<p>
    “He deserves to know—”
</p>
<p>
    “No, he deserves not to have to make some bullshit choice between two
    people he loves.” Jason crosses his arms over his chest and mutters
    something in a language Tim doesn’t recognize, then says: “Get the fuck on
    with it, I’m ready for this to be over.”
</p>
<p>
    On the tablets, Bruce is hitting a limp and unresponsive Jason. Finally,
    Roy Harper swoops in like a bow- and arrow-wielding angel and saves the
    day. His movements are rapid and disjointed as his hands flutter around
    Jason, checking his head and spine. He’s terrified, Tim realizes. Harper
    tries shaking Jason’s shoulder, but he doesn’t wake up. Harper has to half
    carry, half drag him out of the frame. How he managed to get them off the
    roof, much less out of Gotham, Tim has no clue.
</p>
<p>
    When the video cuts off, an x-ray appears on the screen.
</p>
<p>
    “Breaks are highlighted in red, fractures in yellow. Full body,” Babs
    explains. The image changes. “Chest cavity.” Changes again. “Skull.”
</p>
<p>
    Oh, <em>fuck.</em> Tim knew it was going to be bad, it’s not like he
    thought Jason was exaggerating when he said they’d had to put plates in,
    that he’d had seizures, but knowing and seeing were very different things.
</p>
<p>
    “This was not, actually, his most life-threatening injury, that would be
    the internal bleeding, but it was the one with the greatest potential for
    long-term damage. The trauma caused at least six seizures before they put
    him in a medically induced coma.”
</p>
<p>
    Steph is crying, Tim realizes suddenly, and looks up.
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” she says shakily.
</p>
<p>
    “Shut the fuck up, Blondie,” Jason snaps. His eyes are locked on Bruce.
    Who’s also crying, Tim realizes, but silently, gaze fixed resolutely on his
    tablet screen as tears roll down his cheeks. “This whole thing is against
    my direct wishes. Don’t fucking talk to me.”
</p>
<p>
    Steph sniffs, but doesn’t say anything.
</p>
<p>
    Babs continues. “There have been two other major confrontations we’ve
    confirmed, but don’t have footage of. One the night Jason tried to get
    Bruce to kill Joker.”
</p>
<p>
    The photos that pop up on the tablet are from the same set as the last
    ones, showing Jason out cold in the same hospital bed, beat to hell. These
    shots are of older injuries though.
</p>
<p>
    The doctors probably thought he’d been abused. The thought hits Tim with a
    sick jolt of certainty. They thought he was being abused, so they took
    photos of all of his injuries and scars in case it ever went to court. He’s
    sure there’s more of them, zoomed in to document every single one of
    Jason’s hundreds of scars, but the ones on the tablet now are of Jason’s
    neck, chin tilted back so the raised, jagged scar on his throat is clearly
    visible.
</p>
<p>
    “That’s from a Batarang,” Barbara says. “It’s a distinctive shape, although
    I’ve never seen one on anyone’s throat before.”
</p>
<p>
    The hospital pictures disappear and security footage from the cave replaces
    them.
</p>
<p>
    “Earlier this week,” Barbara says, “there was an incident in a warehouse.
    Purely coincidence that Batman and Red Hood were both there. Bruce was
    tracking a mercenary. Jason was tracking a shipment of stolen energy
    cells.”
</p>
<p>
    The clips Barbara picked are brutal. There’s one of Bruce dragging Jason
    out of the trunk, another of him shoving Jason face first against a wall in
    the containment area to frisk him, locking him in a cell and making him
    strip down to his boxers, then cuffing his wrists again and giving him
    nothing but a pair of joggers to fight off the cave’s chill. The shots of
    the head wound and the blood from it are gruesome. The blood trails down
    the whole right side of his body, but it’s worst on his neck and shoulder,
    where the caked-on layers make it look like he just stepped out of a horror
    film.
</p>
<p>
    The worst part, though, is the obvious lack of medical care. Jason spent
    hours in that cell, shivering from the cold, unable to sleep, his wounds
    open and packed with dust and debris from the explosion. There’s a time
    lapse of Jason sitting in the corner, the pool of blood growing and then
    congealing at his bare feet as he shivers. There’s a compilation of him
    drifting off to sleep sitting up and then starting awake seconds later,
    eyes wide, muscles tense and shaking. That one makes Cass hiss angrily.
</p>
<p>
    “We couldn’t find any other incidents before this week, but Tim said you
    mentioned something about six months ago?”
</p>
<p>
    Both Bruce and Jason stiffen immediately. “No,” Jason denies at the same
    time as Bruce says: “Ethiopia.”
</p>
<p>
    They stare at each other for a minute, then Jason huffs and looks away.
    “You only hit me like, twice.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Bruce says lowly. “I’m sorry I brought you there, I—”
</p>
<p>
    “Rewind,” Dick interrupts. “What about Ethiopia?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He swallows, tries again—
</p>
<p>
    “Damian was dead,” Jason says sharply. “Bruce asked for my help. I
    answered. Turns out he didn’t really need my help, he just—” Jason shakes
    his head. “Did you even get anything out of that?”
</p>
<p>
    “No,” Bruce says, his voice small.
</p>
<p>
    “Wait,” Steph asks, confused, “what happened?”
</p>
<p>
    When Bruce doesn’t move to explain, Jason huffs irritably, then says: “He
    told me he needed backup to get me on the stupid jet, then landed next to
    what’s left of the warehouse I fucking died in in a stupid fucking plan to
    make me relive my <em>death</em> and tell him what it was like on the off
    chance it would help him bring Damian back.”
</p>
<p>
    Silence.
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Bruce says, sounding wrecked, “I’m—”
</p>
<p>
    “You could’ve just asked, you know,” Jason snaps. “I would’ve—I would’ve
    told you anything you wanted to know, if I thought it would help. Do you
    think I liked seeing you like that? You were—” Jason swallows. “I didn’t. I
    would’ve told you. I would’ve done anything you wanted, if you’d asked.”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m—”
</p>
<p>
    “But you didn’t ask. You didn’t even warn me. You dropped it on me out of
    nowhere, and then you <em>left me there</em>. Alone and bleeding in the
rubble where I died waiting for you to come save me, you absolute<em>bastard</em>. Who does that?    <em>Who fucking does that to someone?!</em>”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce’s face is buried in his hands.
</p>
<p>
    “Do you even know how long it took to forget about that shit before you
    made me dredge it all back up? How many years I spent with that fucker
    laughing in my ear every time I fucking blinked? How many times I woke up
    screaming your name, burning alive and still thinking you were going to
    save me? I never,” Jason heaves in a lungful of air, tear tracks marking
    his cheeks, “<em>never</em> stopped thinking you were going to save me. Not
once. Not ever. Not until you bloodied me up in that    <em>fucking warehouse</em> and just <em>left.</em>”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m so sorr—”
</p>
<p>
        “<em>That’s not good enough!</em>” Jason yells, voice ragged and
        painful sounding. “It’s done, you already did it, and you know what I
        have nightmares about now, Bruce? <em>You</em>. You, walking away and
        leaving me in the fucking <em>dirt</em>. So fuck your sorry, you
        asshole, you fucking bastard, you—” Jason’s voice breaks and Bruce is
        reaching for him, but he shoves his chair back and stands, turning his
        back on the table to try to collect himself.
</p>
<p>
    Tim swallows hard. He glances and Dick and Babs, but they look just as
    helpless as he feels.
</p>
<p>
    “Okay,” Jason says finally, his back still turned. “Okay. Time to wrap this
    up.” He turns back around, eyes red, jaw set. “Bruce need an anger
    management class, I need a magician to break this fucking spell, and the
    rest of you morons need to mind your own fucking business. We good? Good.
    Meeting adjourned.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Bruce says lowly.
</p>
<p>
    “No,” the younger man says. “I’m done.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason—”
</p>
<p>
    “Jesus, you can never let anything go, can you? Just move on!”
</p>
<p>
    “You’re right,” Bruce admits. “It’s time I let go.” A deep breath, and
    then: “I’m quitting.”
</p>
<p>
    The room falls deathly quiet. Every set of eyes is locked on Bruce.
</p>
<p>
    Tim swallows hard, slowly, carefully, asks: “Quitting what, Bruce?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce flicks his gaze from Jason to Tim, his blue eyes red-rimmed but
    steely with determination. His shoulders are back, his jaw set.
</p>
<p>
    “Batman,” Bruce says levelly. “I’m quitting Batman.”
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>When Roy rings the doorbell at Wayne Manor, he’s psyching himself up to punch Bruce Wayne in the jaw as soon as he opens the door.</p>
<p>He knocks Dick on his ass instead.</p>
<p>“Hey, Roy,” Dick says from the floor. “How’ve you been?”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>THE FINAL CHAPTER</p>
<p>Endings are by far the hardest thing for me to write, but I finally got this somewhere I liked. For some final comments and future fic info, check the end notes.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
    “Jason,” Bruce says.
</p>
<p>
    Jason ignores him. “Don’t think I don’t hear you, Cain,” he snaps. “Stop
    following us.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason.”
</p>
<p>
    Ignore. They march into the library and Jason makes a b-line for the
    fireplace. He bends over to grab kindling and sucks a sharp breath through
    his teeth, wrapping an arm around his ribs.
</p>
<p>
    “Jason.”
</p>
<p>
    “I can do it!”
</p>
<p>
    “I know,” Bruce says, cotton soft. “Please?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason exhales slowly. He eases down into his favorite armchair, careful of
    his battered ribs, and Bruce starts the fire. The chair is identical to the
    last time he saw it, years ago now. He pulls his hood up to hide his face.
    It’s useless, when Bruce knows everything he’s feeling anyway, but it makes
    him feel less exposed.
</p>
<p>
    Barely audible over the crackling fire, Bruce says: “Jason.”
</p>
<p>
    “I don’t—” Jason cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I’m sick of talking.”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay,” Bruce says finally. “I could read, if you want?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason’s eyes burn behind closed lids as he nods jerkily. He listens to
    Bruce’s soft footsteps as he searches the bookcases, then settles down on a
    nearby couch. He clears his throat.
</p>
<p>
    “No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have
    supposed her born to be an heroine,” he starts quietly, and Jason nearly
    laughs. It’s Northanger Abbey. “Her situation in life,” Bruce reads, “the
    character of her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were
    all equally against her.”
</p>
<p>
    The familiar words, spoken in that familiar baritone, slowly ease away some
    of the tension in Jason’s shoulders until he’s nearly boneless, head
    resting against the back of the chair.
</p>
<p>
    “Her father was a clergyman, without being neglected, or poor, and a very
    respectable man, though his name was Richard—and he had never been
    handsome.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason breathes, deep and slow, as Bruce’s voice fades into white noise.
</p>
<p>
    Slowly, he falls asleep.
</p>
<p>
    When he wakes up, the fire is down to glowing embers and Bruce is sleeping
    on the couch. The room is nearly dark, lit only by the fading firelight.
</p>
<p>
    Jason watches him for a long moment, then turns to stare into the embers.
    He doesn’t know what a Bruce without Batman looks like. Maybe no one does,
    not even Bruce.
</p>
<p>
    He knows what Dick looks like though, both with and without Batman. Jason
    prefers ‘without,’ and God knows Goldie does, too. Jason would be shocked
    if there were a person on Earth that wanted Dick in that cowl, after seeing
    it slowly suck the life out of him last time. As much as Jason had hated
    him at the time, he still could barely stand it. Every time he took Lian to
    the zoo, he made sure they skipped the avian exhibits, just to avoid seeing
    the grounded birds of prey with their clipped wings and slowly dulling
    eyes.
</p>
<p>
    Jason swallows, suddenly nauseous. He and Dick have had their differences,
    sure, but he can’t be the reason Dick has to take the cowl again. He just
    can’t.
</p>
<p>
    But what other option is there? Gotham needs a Batman. A shield held up not
    just against danger, but against fear. Against hopelessness. Batman is a
    symbol, not just of justice, but of hope. The possibility of redemption.
    Gotham’s a shithole already, but without that? Jason’s not convinced it
    wouldn’t just crumble overnight.
</p>
<p>
    “What are you thinking about?” Bruce mumbles, still half asleep.
</p>
<p>
    “Batman,” Jason answers honestly.
</p>
<p>
    “Hn,” Bruce grunts.
</p>
<p>
    “Are you really—?”
</p>
<p>
    “Yes.” Bruce sits up. “I already spoke with Clark.”
</p>
<p>
    “Why?” Jason asks quietly, still staring into the fire.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce is silent for a long moment, then says, voice low: “I never meant to
    hurt you. It can never happen again.”
</p>
<p>
    “But,” Jason says, voice strained, “<em>Batman.</em>”
</p>
<p>
    “I’ve thought it through,” Bruce says. “Batman is . . . important to me.
    But it was always supposed to be about helping people. Not hurting them.
    Not hurting my <em>son</em>.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason shakes his head, lips pressed tightly together. His eyes are burning
    again, so he squeezes them shut. “You can’t do this,” he rasps. “Gotham
    needs you.”
</p>
<p>
    “Gotham needs Batman,” Bruce corrects.
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah,” Jason huffs. “That’s <em>you</em>.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce exhales slowly. “Maybe it shouldn’t be.”
</p>
<p>
    “Who is it going to be, then?” Jason says, pressing the heels of his hands
    over his eyes until he sees stars. “Dick?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce just stares into the fire.
</p>
<p>
    “You can’t,” Jason says, almost desperately. “You didn’t see him when you
    were gone.”
</p>
<p>
    “He did well,” Bruce says, verging on defensive. “I know you’re upset with
    him, but—”
</p>
<p>
    Jason shakes his head, locking eyes with the older man. “No, I’m not
    talking about that.” He has to understand. “It was eating him alive, B. It
    was like—” He growls, frustrated. “You can’t make him do that again. You
    can’t—”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay,” Bruce relents. “I believe you.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason stares for a minute, disbelieving. “Just like that?” he says finally.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce is quiet for a minute, then repeats: “Just like that.”
</p>
<p>
    “What are you going to do, then?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce hums, noncommittal, then says: “I’ll ask Clark to cover for me.”
</p>
<p>
    “For how long?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce lifts one shoulder in a tired shrug. “I’m not sure yet if this is…
    forever,” he says. “If it is, I’ll figure something out.”
</p>
<p>
    “But you won’t make Dick take it?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce shakes his head and Jason exhales with more relief than he can really
    explain. The room falls silent again and Jason’s eyes start feeling heavy.
    He lets them slide closed. The chair isn’t as comfortable as he remembers,
    who knows if it’s the power of nostalgia or just that he’s a lot bigger
    than he was the last time he sat in this library. Either way, he’s tired
    enough it doesn’t really matter. He’s nearly asleep again when Bruce breaks
    the silence.
</p>
<p>
    “I called Harper,” he says.
</p>
<p>
    Jason’s eyes fly open. “What?”
</p>
<p>
    “While you were asleep. I thought,” Bruce clears his throat, “you might
    want someone around that you trust. I understand if you want to leave with
    him. But. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. Both of you.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason stares at him.
</p>
<p>
    “Is that,” Bruce tries, voice faltering, “okay?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason keeps staring.
</p>
<p>
    “Jaylad,” Bruce says, brow furrowing. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain? Give
    me a number.”
</p>
<p>
    “Seriously?” Jason scoffs. “Can’t you tell?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce is quiet for a second too long. “No,” he says finally. “Zatanna came
    by while you were sleeping.”
</p>
<p>
    Oh.
</p>
<p>
    The spell’s gone. And instead of kicking Jason out, Bruce was—
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Bruce repeats, almost pleading, “what’s wrong?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason just shakes his head. If he opens his mouth, he’s gonna start crying,
    and he’s <em>tired </em>of crying, he doesn’t want—
</p>
<p>
    Bruce’s face twists and he shifts towards Jason, too fast, and Jason shoves
    himself backward so hard the armchair nearly tips over.
</p>
<p>
    Whatever emotion was marring Bruce’s usually blank expression wasn’t rage,
    but it takes Jason, pressed back against the cushions of the chair and
    panting hard, a few minutes to realize that.
</p>
<p>
    “I didn’t—” Bruce says, sounding heartbroken. He’s retreated to the far end
    of the couch, and Jason wants to snap something about it not being
    necessary, but he’s too busy catching his breath.
</p>
<p>
    When he’s calmed back down, Jason says: “When’s Roy coming?”
</p>
<p>
    “Not for a few more hours,” Bruce says, hesitant. “Would you be more
    comfortable in a bed?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason exhales roughly. “Probably.”
</p>
<p>
    “Upstairs, then?”
</p>
<p>
    Nodding, Jason shifts his weight and can’t hold back a low groan. Fuck, he
    hurts.
</p>
<p>
    “Easy,” Bruce says lowly. “Should I—I can get some meds, first—?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason waves him off. “Just help me up.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce swallows hard before inching towards Jason, every move clearly
    telegraphed. Jason just breathes. Finally, Bruce is close
    enough to duck low so Jason can get an arm over his shoulders. He wraps his
    own arm around to grip Jason’s hip, careful to avoid his ribs. “Ready?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason nods tightly. Bruce stands and Jason sucks in a breath through
    gritted teeth.
</p>
<p>
    “Okay?”
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah,” Jason manages. “Just stiff.”
</p>
<p>
    There’s no way Bruce believes him, but the old man doesn’t say anything,
    just waits for Jason to signal he’s ready to move. Jason takes a few deep
    breaths, then steps forward. They make it out of the library and through
    the hall without too much trouble. Then they hit the stairs.
</p>
<p>
    “I could—” Bruce starts uncertainly.
</p>
<p>
    “No fucking way are you carrying me again,” Jason says, shoving back a
    thrum of panic at the thought of being helpless in Bruce’s arms. “Let’s
    go.”
</p>
<p>
    Fuck stairs. Jason feels like he’s dying by the time they make it to the
    landing. By the time they get to Bruce’s room, he’s swallowing back nausea.
</p>
<p>
    “B, I’m gonna—” There’s a wastebasket in his hands almost instantly, a warm
    hand rubbing circles into his back as he heaves.
</p>
<p>
    “Done?” B asks after a while and Jason nods. “Lie down. I’ll be right
    back.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason drifts for a bit, then surfaces again as Bruce wipes his face down
    with a damp cloth. The cloth disappears and Bruce starts tugging off his
    boots.
</p>
<p>
    “Jay,” Bruce says, voice a low rumble. “Sit up for me. You need to take
    some meds before you sleep.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason hums a vague negative but sits up when Bruce starts manhandling him.
    He takes the offered pills and the water to wash them down, then lies back
    down.
</p>
<p>
    He feels the soft, probably stupidly expensive blankets settle around his
    ears, and then he’s out.
</p>
<p>
    ------
</p>
<p>
    When Roy rings the doorbell at Wayne Manor, he’s psyching himself up to
    punch Bruce Wayne in the jaw as soon as he opens the door.
</p>
<p>
    He knocks Dick on his ass instead.
</p>
<p>
    “Hey, Roy,” Dick says from the floor. “How’ve you been?”
</p>
<p>
    “Where’s Jay?” Roy demands, eyes searching for any sign of the big bad Bat.
    Nothing.
</p>
<p>
    “He’s upstairs,” Dick says, still on his back. “Sleeping.”
</p>
<p>
    Roy grabs an arm and yanks his old teammate to his feet, then pushes him
    towards the stairs, probably a little rougher than necessary. “Show me.”
</p>
<p>
    Dick just nods tiredly and leads Roy up the stairs and down the hall, then
    swings a door open and gestures for Roy to go in.
</p>
<p>
    He goes in. Jason’s out cold on the bed, dark hair mussed but clean, face
    bruised but tended to. No stitches, but there’s a butterfly bandage holding
    the split skin over his cheekbone together. There are bruises on what Roy
    can see of his neck. He wants to shift the blankets to get a better look at
    them, but Jay looks like he could use the rest and he’d probably wake up.
    Jaybird’s always been a light sleeper.
</p>
<p>
    Actually. “Did you sedate him?” he asks Dick, voice low but hopefully
    threatening.
</p>
<p>
    “No,” Dick says, “just pain meds. He’s worn out, is all.”
</p>
<p>
    Roy huffs, turning to eye the older vigilante suspiciously. He doesn’t look
    like he’s lying. Dick nods towards the hall and Roy acquiesces, closing the
    door behind him, as silently as he can.
</p>
<p>
    “Why the fuck is he here?” Roy asks furiously. “What the fuck did you
    people do to him?”
</p>
<p>
    “That’s,” Dick swallows, “a long story.”
</p>
<p>
    “Well, you better start talking, then.” Roy crosses his arms over his
    chest, scowling.
</p>
<p>
    Dick takes a deep breath, running a trembling hand down his face. “Food
    first?” he asks, voice hoarse. “Alfred’s making dinner.”
</p>
<p>
    Roy stares at him for a long moment. “You look tired, Dickie,” he says
    finally.
</p>
<p>
    The sound Dick makes can barely be classified as a laugh. His eyes look
    moist. “Yeah,” he says, a little helpless. “It’s been that kind of week.”
</p>
<p>
    “Food sounds good,” Roy admits. “Where is everybody, anyway?”
</p>
<p>
    “In the kitchen.” Dick leads them back down the stairs. “The group decided
    I would be the least offensive to you.”
</p>
<p>
    Roy huffs, glancing at the red patch on Dick’s jaw that’s definitely going
    to bruise.
</p>
<p>
    “I was outvoted,” Dick says dryly, catching him looking.
</p>
<p>
    “Sorry,” Roy mutters. “I was expecting your old man.” They turn down the
    hall towards the kitchen. “He in the kitchen, too?”
</p>
<p>
    “No,” Dick says after a moment of hesitation. “We thought it would be
    better if you didn’t have to see him?”
</p>
<p>
    Roy frowns. “Where is he?”
</p>
<p>
    Dick shrugs. “In the cave, probably.”
</p>
<p>
    Roy turns around, heading back for the stairs.
</p>
<p>
    “Roy,” Dick says, jogging to catch up with him. “What are you—”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m staying with Jay.”
</p>
<p>
    “But I thought, food—?”
</p>
<p>
    “You think I’m going to leave him alone with the Bat prowling around in the
    shadows?” Roy snarls. “No fucking way.”
</p>
<p>
    Dick maneuvers his way in front of Roy, walking backwards with his hands
    held out in surrender. “He’s sleeping, Roy, let him—”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce Wayne is standing in front of Jason’s door, hand on the knob.
</p>
<p>
    The sound his head makes when it rebounds off the door frame is Roy’s new
    favorite song.
</p>
<p>
    Intense blue eyes meet Roy’s, and he tenses, arms up to block—
</p>
<p>
    “Harper,” Wayne sighs. He glances at Dick, then back at Roy.
</p>
<p>
    Come on, old man. Just try it.
</p>
<p>
    “I was just checking on him.”
</p>
<p>
    Roy scoffs. “As if.”
</p>
<p>
    There’s a flicker in Wayne’s expression, and Roy narrows his eyes.
</p>
<p>
    <em>He’s not hard to read,</em> Jason had insisted once.
    <em>He makes all the expressions other people do, just smaller. Faster. You
        have to pay attention.</em>
</p>
<p>
    That’s a flinch. Tiny, and fleeting, but a flinch.
</p>
<p>
    Wayne’s gaze flicks to Dick again, face blank.
</p>
<p>
    Dick doesn’t intervene.
</p>
<p>
    “I want eyes on him or Jay at all times,” Roy demands.
</p>
<p>
    “Okay,” Dick agrees slowly. “Bruce, you’re coming to dinner.”
</p>
<p>
    ------
</p>
<p>
    Even the thought of eating has Bruce’s stomach lurching, but he doesn’t
    argue. When they get to the kitchen, any conversation that might have been
    happening grinds to a halt. Bruce doesn’t meet anyone’s gaze. Instead, he
    makes his way to the chair furthest away from the others and sits down.
</p>
<p>
    When Alfred sets a plate down in front of him, it clatters harshly. Bruce
    winces, not daring to look the older man in the eye. There’s a disdainful
    sniff, then the man that might as well be his father turns his back and
    walks away. Tim is talking on the other side of the room, probably walking
    Harper through the events of the last week. Bruce stares at his plate of
    food, unseeing.
</p>
<p>
    Time passes. The food cools. A throat is cleared nearby and Bruce flinches,
    blinking up at the sound.
</p>
<p>
    Alfred. Lips pressed into a thin line. Brow furrowed. Bruce looks away,
    swallowing.
</p>
<p>
    “You need to eat.”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m not hungry,” Bruce says, low and rasping.
</p>
<p>
    The chair next to him is pulled out from the table, legs scraping gently
    against the floor. The others are all gone, Bruce realizes. It’s just him
    and Alfred at the table.
</p>
<p>
    After several minutes sitting in silence, Alfred says: “Do you have
    anything to say for yourself?” His voice is hard. Unyielding.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce shakes his head stiffly.
</p>
<p>
    “Nothing?”
</p>
<p>
    The scorn in the man’s voice pierces him like a knife. He opens his mouth
    to say <em>something</em>.
</p>
<p>
    <em>I didn’t mean to.</em>
</p>
<p>
    <em>I’m so, so sorry.</em>
</p>
<p>
    <em>I’d rather die than hurt him again. Hurt any of them again.</em>
</p>
<p>
    But the words aren’t there. He tries to swallow and can barely manage that.
</p>
<p>
    “I—” he says finally, then his throat twists closed. When he was a child,
    Alfred used to tell him to picture the words in his mind. Think through
    each sound, each movement of lips and tongue and jaw. He hasn’t practiced
    in a long time. Usually, he just doesn’t say anything, when he gets like
    this.
</p>
<p>
    But this is <em>Alfred</em>.
</p>
<p>
    “I—” he tries again. “I—I—”
</p>
<p>
    Alfred just sighs, takes Bruce’s untouched plate, and walks away.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce bows his head, eyes squeezed shut in a fruitless attempt to ward off
    tears of frustration and burning, overwhelming shame.
</p>
<p>
    When the plate thuds against the table in front of him, Bruce almost jumps
    out of his skin.
</p>
<p>
    He stares at it, uncomprehending. It’s a piece of toast, spread with peanut
    butter and covered in a layer of sliced bananas. One of the few things he
    could be coaxed into eating in the months after his parents’ murder.
</p>
<p>
    “You need to eat,” Alfred says, and it’s not gentle like it was when Bruce
    was a child, but it’s so, so much more than he deserves.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce sniffs awkwardly, brushing tears off his cheeks, then picks up the
    toast with a trembling hand and takes a bite. He chews mechanically,
    tasting nothing, and finally manages to swallow.
</p>
<p>
    “The whole piece,” Alfred orders.
</p>
<p>
    Stomach rolling, Bruce stares down at the toast despairingly. He chokes
    down another bite, then presses the back of his hand against his mouth as
    he gags, trying to keep it down.
</p>
<p>
    He swallows hard and takes a few deep breaths through his mouth, feeling
    pathetic. He takes another bite. And another, and another, until, finally,
    it’s gone.
</p>
<p>
    “A—Al,” he manages after a moment, hating the way his voice jerks and
    stops. He’s desperate to get the words out, though. He can’t live with
    Alfred not knowing. “I’m—I’m s—s—so sorry.”
</p>
<p>
    Alfred exhales, leaning forward. Bruce can’t bring himself to look at him.
    “You will never,” the old man says forcefully, “hurt my grandchildren
    again. Is that understood?”
</p>
<p>
    Nodding jerkily, Bruce says, too fast: “I—I’d r—rather d—d—<em>die</em>.”
</p>
<p>
    Alfred is deathly quiet for a moment. “Is that your intention?”
</p>
<p>
    Oh.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce shakes his head. “N—n—no. I—I’m l—l—l—looking f—for a th—th—th—” He
    growls, frustrated. “A th—th—ther—<em>therapist</em>.”
</p>
<p>
    “A reputable one, I hope,” Alfred sniffs.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce nods.
</p>
<p>
    “Nothing like those quacks you saw before.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce shakes his head.
</p>
<p>
    “Can you look at me?”
</p>
<p>
    Bottom lip trembling, Bruce raises his head and meets Alfred’s gaze.
</p>
<p>
    The old man searches Bruce’s face for a long moment, lips pressed together
    so tightly they disappear into a white line. Finally, he says: “My dear
    boy,” and Bruce falls apart.
</p>
<p>
    “Shh,” Alfred soothes, hand cupped around the nape of Bruce’s neck.
</p>
<p>
    “I—I—I’m s—so s—s—s—sorry,” he manages. “I’m s—sorry, I—I’m s—sorry.”
</p>
<p>
    “I know, my boy,” Alfred says.
</p>
<p>
    Bruce buries his head in his father’s shoulder, too choked up to even try
    to express how much he knows he fucked up.
</p>
<p>
    “I know you said,” Alfred says once he’s quieted some, “that you do not
    intend to hurt yourself. But you must understand that as much as you have
    failed them, your children still love you very much. Any actions resulting
    in your injury or,” Alfred hesitates, “or death would only hurt them more.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce pulls back. “I’m n—not,” he tries. “It’s not—not—not l—l—like
    th—th—that, I—I—I—” He scrubs at his eyes, exhaling angrily. Why can’t he
    just fucking speak?
</p>
<p>
    “When you find your therapist,” Alfred says quietly, seriously, “you will
    inform them of your history, yes?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce swallows hard, nodding.
</p>
<p>
    “Alright,” Alfred repeats, eyes haunted. “Until then, will you promise not
    to be alone?”
</p>
<p>
    “I—” Bruce’s voice cracks. He shakes his head. “I don’t th—th—th—think,” he
    says, “I sh—should be around th—th—th—them.”
</p>
<p>
    “Well, then,” Alfred says brusquely, “you can be around me.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, breathing as evenly as he can. “I’ve been a
    t—terrible father,” he says finally, “and a terrible son.”
</p>
<p>
    Alfred sighs, clasping a bony hand over Bruce’s shoulder. “You have hurt
    your children terribly,” he agrees, “of that there is no question. And yes,
    you have hurt me as well. But it is a parent’s duty to absorb the pain
    their children inflict. Do not ever apologize to me for that.”
</p>
<p>
    “What do I do, Alfred?” Bruce manages after a long silence. “I don’t—I
    don’t know how to fix this.”
</p>
<p>
    “You get well,” Alfred answers, gaze holding Bruce’s firmly, “you do what
    you can to make amends, and you pray that your children find it in their
    hearts to forgive you someday.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce nods jerkily, wiping at the tear tracks on his face.
</p>
<p>
    After eying him for a long moment, Alfred nods once, sharply, then herds
    him into the kitchen proper and sits him down at one of the stools before
    busying himself about the kitchen. After a moment, he sets a cup of tea
    down in front of Bruce, thick with milk and sugar.
</p>
<p>
    Another old trick to get more calories into him. Bruce drinks it slowly,
    shaking hands curled around the warm cup, and just breathes.
</p>
<p>
    ------
</p>
<p>
    Jason wakes up to the smell of Roy’s cheap cologne, a familiarly muscled
    arm slung over his shoulders. He shifts, and Roy grunts, half asleep. Jason
    shifts again and one green eye cracks open to look at him.
</p>
<p>
    “Hey, Jaybird,” Roy hums, voice rough with sleep.
</p>
<p>
    “Hey,” Jason tries to say, but it’s more of an unintelligible croak than
    anything else.
</p>
<p>
    Roy’s eyes flick to Jason’s throat and he’s suddenly very awake. “Oh,
    jeez,” he says, fingers ghosting over the thick band of dark bruising.
    “Fuck, I’m gonna kill him.”
</p>
<p>
    “No,” Jason rasps. “M’ fault.”
</p>
<p>
    “Fuck off,” Roy scoffs quietly, peering at Jason with big, concerned eyes.
    “You can’t insist on taking responsibility for everything the Pit made you
    do, then say this isn’t his fault. That’s called a double-standard,
    Jaybird.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason grunts and flips him off, swinging his legs over to get off the bed
    and then—
</p>
<p>
    Roy’s arms looped under his, keeping him from landing hard on the wooden
    floor.
</p>
<p>
    “Fuck,” he grinds out, squeezing his eyes closed.
</p>
<p>
    “Easy, Jay,” Roy soothes, guiding him back up to the bed. Roy sets him down
    flat on his back, lower legs dangling, but Jason moves instinctively,
    twisting sideways to curl his body around broken ribs.
</p>
<p>
    “No, none of that, Jaybird, come on,” Roy says, voice low and apologetic.
    He manhandles Jason onto his back again, the movement punching sounds out
    of Jason that probably would’ve sounded inhuman even without the damage to
    his throat. “Here you go,” Roy says, offering Jason a pillow. He grabs it
    instantly, pressing it tight against his ribs and heaving ragged, panting
    breaths.
</p>
<p>
    “Fuck,” Jason manages, voice crackling. “<em>Fuck</em>.”
</p>
<p>
“Open up,” Roy says, tipping something—hopefully pain meds, Jesus    <em>fuck</em>—into his mouth, then propping him up so he can take a sip
    from a glass of water.
</p>
<p>
    Just swallowing has Jason whimpering like a beaten dog.
</p>
<p>
    “Easy, Jaybird.” Roy runs a hand through Jason’s hair comfortingly. “Meds
    will kick in soon. Just gotta ride it out.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason clutches the pillow to his ribs and tries to breathe through it.
    Reality comes and goes, Jason catching snatches of Roy’s off-key humming,
    feeling calluses brush gently over his scalp.
</p>
<p>
    Finally, the fierce, all-consuming pain ratchets down to a manageably
    horrifying ache.
</p>
<p>
    “Back with me?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason grunts an affirmative. “Need to piss,” he rasps.
</p>
<p>
    “Sure,” Roy says easily. “Let’s get you upright.”
</p>
<p>
    “Fuck,” Jason hisses as Roy pulls him to his feet, Jason’s arm slung over
    his shoulders, Roy’s hand gripping Jason’s hip. “<em>Fuck</em>.”
</p>
<p>
    “Easy,” Roy coaches. “How we doing?”
</p>
<p>
    “Left leg is locked up good,” Jason says. “Ribs are fucked.”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay. Let me know when you’re ready.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason takes a few breaths, shifting his weight from one foot to the other
    to try and loosen the muscles up. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”
</p>
<p>
    They make it to the bathroom, albeit slowly and painfully.
</p>
<p>
    “Just like old times, am I right?” Roy jokes as they reach the toilet.
</p>
<p>
    Jason just huffs. Unfortunately, yes. Any shreds of privacy he’d had left
    after sharing a very small spaceship with Roy and Kori was thoroughly
    obliterated in the weeks after he shot Penguin.
</p>
<p>
    The trip back to the bed is easier. Jason frowns at his leg, probing at the
    muscles until—
</p>
<p>
    “<em>Fuck</em>.”
</p>
<p>
    “Alright?”
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah,” Jason says. “The fuck happened to my leg?”
</p>
<p>
    “Bone’s bruised. They think he kneeled on it when he pinned you.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason winces at the thought of all of Bruce’s considerable weight landing
    on his leg. “That part’s kinda,” Jason wavers a hand in the air, “blurry.”
</p>
<p>
    Roy’s mouth is set in an unhappy line. “What the fuck happened, Jay? I know
    you can control that shit. Drake says you—”
</p>
<p>
    Jason exhales in a huff. “I’m an idiot, that’s all.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jason,” Roy groans, “did you actually think that asshole would be able to
    just rein it in?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason shrugs pathetically. “I don’t know.”
</p>
<p>
    “No,” Roy says, a little sharp. “You do know, and you need to tell me.
    Because the way I see it? Either you thought he’d throw it off, or you
    thought he was going to beat you to death and you just laid there and took
    it. Again.”
</p>
<p>
    “I didn’t—”
</p>
<p>
    “Don’t <em>bullshit me</em>!”
</p>
<p>
    Jason flinches back, eyes screwed shut.
</p>
<p>
    “Oh, Christ,” Roy breathes, “I’m sorry. Fuck. Are you—”
</p>
<p>
    “I’m fine,” Jason says. “I’m good.”
</p>
<p>
    “Are you sure?”
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah,” Jason insists. “It’s just the meds. My head’s just fucked up from
    the meds, it’s okay—”
</p>
<p>
    “Jaybird,” Roy says quietly. “Come on, man. Don’t lie to me. Not to me.”
</p>
<p>
    Air catches in Jason’s throat. Eyes burning, he says, voice wavering: “I
    don’t know, Roy. I just.” He sniffs hard, blinking back tears. “It’s
    stupid, but all the other times, it was—it was Batman, you know? And, in my
    head, if I just kept them separate, it was—it was okay. But—”
</p>
<p>
    His voice cracks, and suddenly Roy is sitting next to him, an arm over his
    shoulders pulling him to the older boy’s side. “I know it wasn’t really
    him,” Jason rasps. “I know. But it was his <em>face</em>, and he was so
    angry, and I’ve never seen Bruce angry like that, Roy, not ever. He’s
    not—he wasn’t <em>like that</em>. Not at home. Not with the cowl off.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jay,” Roy says carefully. “He’s still the same person, cowl or no cowl.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason growls, frustrated. “I know,” he says. “I know.”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay,” Roy says, and Jason curls into him deeper, pressing his forehead
    against the skin of his neck. “So, it freaked you out a little, seeing his
    face when he was hurting you?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason nods, eyes closed. “Reminded me of my dad,” he admits, voice so quiet
    it’s barely audible. “I think.”
</p>
<p>
    “Oh, Jay.”
</p>
<p>
    Clenching his jaw, Jason tries to push back the sob building in his chest.
</p>
<p>
    “It’s okay, man,” Roy says, wrapping his other arm around Jason. “It’s
    okay. Let it out.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason cries, tears soaking into Roy’s red t-shirt. “I don’t,” he manages
    between sobs, “want to be here anymore. I can’t—”
</p>
<p>
    “Shh,” Roy soothes, rubbing circles into his back. “That’s okay, Jay.
    That’s okay. We’ll leave, yeah? You can come stay with me for a while.
    Lian’s been missing you like crazy.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason just nods into Roy’s ruined shirt, tears still leaking out of his
    aching eyes. Roy starts humming again, a tune Jason knows but can’t quite
    name. He’s still trying to figure out what it is as he falls asleep.
</p>
<p>
    ------
</p>
<p>
    When Roy steps out of the room, the whole fucking circus is standing in the
    hall.
</p>
<p>
    “We’re leaving,” he says. “Where’s his gear?”
</p>
<p>
    “I will retrieve it,” the littlest one says, spinning on one heel and
    stalking down the hall.
</p>
<p>
    “All I’ve got is my truck,” Roy says, looking at Dick. “He’ll be fucking
    miserable.”
</p>
<p>
    “We’ve got a van,” Dick says. “The backseat fold into a bed.”
</p>
<p>
    “That’ll work.”
</p>
<p>
    “I’ll come with you,” one of the girls says. “You won’t be able to keep an
    eye on him while you drive.”
</p>
<p>
    Roy narrows his eyes at her. “You’re Blondie?”
</p>
<p>
    “Um, yeah. That’s what he calls me.”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay, you’re in.”
</p>
<p>
    “I can drive your truck,” Drake offers, “and take the van back with Steph
    after.”
</p>
<p>
    Roy nods sharply. “He’s in a lot of pain. Don’t know if he can make it down
    the stairs.”
</p>
<p>
    “I’ll grab a stretcher from the cave,” Dick says. “Be right back.”
</p>
<p>
    “Pack up some painkillers. Antibiotics. Anti-inflammatories. Whatever you
    think he might need. I don’t carry that shit in my truck.”
</p>
<p>
    “Got it,” Dick calls over his shoulder, already on his way down the stairs.
    “Cas?” The Asian girl follows him downstairs.
</p>
<p>
    He turns to Blondie and Drake. “Where’s Alfred?”
</p>
<p>
    “In the kitchen,” Drake says.
</p>
<p>
    “With Bruce,” Blondie adds.
</p>
<p>
    Okay. “Watch this door,” he orders. “Do not let anyone in there. Especially
    not Wayne.”
</p>
<p>
    The pair nods, in synch, and Roy heads downstairs.
</p>
<p>
    Alfred looks up when he enters the room. Wayne doesn’t.
</p>
<p>
    Roy was planning on ignoring the man entirely, but he takes a minute to
    appreciate how terrible he looks before turning to the old man.
</p>
<p>
    “We’re leaving,” he says. “Can I get a number he can reach you at? If he
    wakes up before we go, he might want to say goodbye, but if he doesn’t…”
</p>
<p>
    “Of course,” Alfred says, a little shocked. He pulls out a notepad and
    pencil from a drawer and writes out a phone number.
</p>
<p>
    “This is yours?” Roy asks, needing to be sure. The last thing Jason needs
    is to call expecting Alfred and have Wayne pick up. “Not the landline or
    whatever?”
</p>
<p>
    “Yes,” he says. “That’s my personal number.”
</p>
<p>
    “Right,” Roy says. “Thanks.”
</p>
<p>
    “Thank you, Mr. Harper,” the old man says, full of sincerity. “For all you
    have done for him.”
</p>
<p>
    Roy shrugs awkwardly. “He’s my friend.” He turns to leave, then changes his
    mind and steps right up next to Wayne.
</p>
<p>
    The guy’s all puffy-faced and red-eyed, like he’s been crying, but Roy
    doesn’t give a fuck. “If I see you anywhere near him,” Roy says, voice flat
    and low, “you’ll have an arrow through your eye before you even know I’m
    there.”
</p>
<p>
    Wayne just stares at his mug of tea.
</p>
<p>
    “Hey.” Roy steps closer, all up in his personal space. “You hearing me,
    Batsy?”
</p>
<p>
    Wayne nods once, jerkily.
</p>
<p>
    “Gonna need a verbal acknowledgement, asshole.”
</p>
<p>
    “I understand,” Wayne says quietly, still staring at his tea.
</p>
<p>
    Roy scoffs. He has to fight back the urge to spit at him. Jay will never
    forgive him if he spits in Alfred’s kitchen.
</p>
<p>
    He goes to leave but turns back around when Wayne says his name.
</p>
<p>
    “Harper,” he says, voice hoarse and a little desperate. “If he wakes up,
    can you ask him if I can say good—”
</p>
<p>
    Roy spits in his face.
</p>
<p>
    Wayne doesn’t do anything at all, just lowers his gaze, wipes his face with
    the back of his hand, and goes back to staring into his cup.
</p>
<p>
    Roy glances at Alfred. He doesn’t seem mad. “Don’t tell Jason?”
</p>
<p>
    The old man glances at him, confused, then gives him a sad smile. “Of
    course.”
</p>
<p>
    “Thanks,” Roy says, already halfway out the door.
</p>
<p>
    ------
</p>
<p>
    Jason blinks awake, confused. Someone is sitting next to him, looking at
    their phone. He squints. “Blondie?”
</p>
<p>
    Stephanie jumps. “Jason! You’re awake.”
</p>
<p>
    He just stares at her for a moment, then looks around them. “Where,” he
    says, “are we?”
</p>
<p>
    “We’re driving you to Roy’s place,” she explains. “We’ve got a ways to go
    yet.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason grunts.
</p>
<p>
    “Need anything? It’s about time for more meds.”
</p>
<p>
    It feels like it, too. “I need to piss,” he says after a minute. “Where’s
    Roy?”
</p>
<p>
    “Sorry, man, that was not English. What’s wrong?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason frowns. “Where’s Roy?” he asks again, trying to speak more clearly.
    He’s pretty sure it still comes out garbled as fuck.
</p>
<p>
    “He’s in the rest stop. Do you want something to eat?”
</p>
<p>
    Jason shakes his head. “Need to piss,” he says again.
</p>
<p>
    “Roy should be back any minute.”
</p>
<p>
    “’kay,” Jason mumbles, closing his eyes.
</p>
<p>
    “Hey, Jaybird.”
</p>
<p>
    Roy. Jason makes a confused sound in his throat. When did Roy get here?”
</p>
<p>
    “Come on, man. Steph says you need to piss.”
</p>
<p>
    Yeah. Yeah, he does. “She a,” Jason mumbles, “mind reader?”
</p>
<p>
    Roy laughs. “Nah, man. You told her while I was gone.”
</p>
<p>
    “Roy,” Jason mumbles. “Roy.”
</p>
<p>
    “Yeah, man, I’m here.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason squints up at him. “I think I’m broken.”
</p>
<p>
    “Nah,” Roy says easily. “You’re just high. Let’s get you up.”
</p>
<p>
    Roy helps him up and out of the van, then half carries him to the bathroom.
    He’s awake enough by the time they get there to shove Roy away from the
    urinal so he can piss in peace. He thinks Roy laughs at him.
</p>
<p>
    “You cool with Drake keeping you company for a while? He’s getting tired of
    driving.”
</p>
<p>
    “’Placement?”
</p>
<p>
    “Hey, Jason.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason squints. He’s not sure when they left the bathroom, but they’re
    outside now, leaning against a blue van. “Hey, Timbo,” Jason says.
</p>
<p>
    Tim looks disturbed. “Is he…smiling at me?”
</p>
<p>
    “He’s high as fuck, Drake, just roll with it.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason rolls back into the van-bed and immediately starts falling asleep.
</p>
<p>
    “Hold up,” Roy says. Jason grumbles something. He’s not sure what. “You
    gotta take your meds first, buddy.”
</p>
<p>
    Fine. Whatever. He knocks back the pills Roy tips into his mouth, then the
    water.
</p>
<p>
    It’s fucking <em>magic</em> <em>water</em>. It flew all over his shirt.
</p>
<p>
    Roy is laughing at him again.
</p>
<p>
    “Fuck off,” he mumbles, and promptly falls back asleep.
</p>
<p>
    ------
</p>
<p>
    “Dick?”
</p>
<p>
    Dick doesn’t even glance up from his phone. He was hoping to avoid this
    conversation, but Damian’s always been a slow packer. He should’ve just
    driven Dami and the dog to the penthouse as soon as Roy left and come back
    for everything else later.
</p>
<p>
    “Can we,” Bruce says, “talk for a minute?”
</p>
<p>
    Dick exhales. “It’s fine,” he says, not bothering to look up. “I was
    already planning on wearing the cowl.”
</p>
<p>
    “No,” Bruce says, and Dick looks at him for the first time, frowning in
    confusion. “I asked Clark to cover.”
</p>
<p>
    Oh. Oh. That’s—
</p>
<p>
    “I can do it,” Dick insists.
</p>
<p>
    “I know you can,” Bruce says. “You did a great job last time. Batman is
    always there for you, if you want it.”
</p>
<p>
    “But?” Dick prompts, wary.
</p>
<p>
    “Jason said you don’t,” Bruce says, all in a rush. “Want it. And that’s.
    Fine. That’s—” Bruce exhales through his nose, frustrated. “We can figure
    something else out,” he says finally.
</p>
<p>
    “Okay,” Dick says slowly. “Jason said that?”
</p>
<p>
    “Well,” Bruce says. “More or less.” He swallows. “He said wearing the cowl
    was…bad for you. That it was—I think he phrased it: ‘eating you alive.’”
</p>
<p>
    Leaning back, Dick tries to absorb that. Jason was locked up for a good
    part of Dick’s run as Batman, first in Arkham, then Blackgate. They only
    ran into each other a handful of times. What the fuck did he know about
    what Batman was doing to Dick?
</p>
<p>
    “Was he wrong?”
</p>
<p>
    Dick huffs a humorless laugh. He shrugs. “Not really. I don’t—” He shakes
    his head. “Batman doesn’t fit me. I don’t think it ever will.”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay.”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay?” Dick parrots back, incredulous.
</p>
<p>
    “Okay,” Bruce repeats. “You can—” He clears his throat. “Do you want to
    take my place in the JLA? As Nightwing. Not Batman.”
</p>
<p>
    Dick stares at him.
</p>
<p>
    “Just,” Bruce hesitates. “Temporarily. Until I. Figure some things out.”
</p>
<p>
    “Are you serious?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce nods haltingly. “Only if you want to. I just thought. Batman doesn’t
    have to be one person. If you take my JLA duties, and Clark patrols, and
    maybe Tim can investigate, or I could still—”
</p>
<p>
    Dick tackles him in a hug.
</p>
<p>
    “Dick?” Bruce says after a moment, unsure.
</p>
<p>
    “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Dick says, Bruce’s broad shoulder muffling
    his voice a bit. “I’m still mad at you.”
</p>
<p>
    “Alright,” Bruce says, sounding confused. His arms wrap around Dick anyway,
    holding him as tight as he would when Dick was still Robin.
</p>
<p>
    “Like seriously mad. You really fucked up.”
</p>
<p>
    “Yes.”
</p>
<p>
    “But you’re really trying, aren’t you? To fix things?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce exhales, tipping his own forehead down to rest on Dick’s shoulder.
    “I’m—I found a therapist,” he says after a moment. “I’m going to see him
    tomorrow.”
</p>
<p>
    “Is that,” Dick hesitates, “safe?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “He’s thoroughly vetted.
    Pro-vigilante. Takes doctor-patient confidentiality very seriously.”
</p>
<p>
    “Okay,” Dick breathes, finally breaking off the hug. “I’m still mad,” he
    repeats, “and I haven’t even come close to forgiving you. But. I’m kinda
    proud of the way you’re handling this.”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce just shrugs again. “I’m sorry,” he says after a minute. “I always
    thought being Batman was…good for me. It gave me purpose, conviction. I
    thought it would be good for you, too.”
</p>
<p>
    Dick hesitates, then says: “Can I give you some advice?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce blinks at him. “Of course.”
</p>
<p>
    “I’ve been in this game for a long time,” he starts. “Most of my life, now.
    And even before that, in the circus…I’ve always known it’s got an
    expiration date, you know? That’s what happens when you put that kind of
    strain on your body, day after day. So, I’m Nightwing, yeah, but Nightwing
    isn’t <em>me</em>. Not entirely. Or one day I’ll wake up and I won’t be
    anything at all. Do you know what I mean?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce doesn’t say anything, just looks at him blankly.
</p>
<p>
    Dick exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I guess what I’m saying,”
    he says, “is that you’ve gotta keep an ‘after’ in mind, yeah? Like, if this
    isn’t the end of Batman, for you, you have to remember that there will be
    an end someday. One day, you’ll wake up and you won’t be able to be Batman
    anymore. You have to make peace with that.”
</p>
<p>
    Frowning, Bruce nods slowly. “I’ll…keep that in mind.”
</p>
<p>
    “Have you,” Dick hesitates, eyes searching Bruce’s face, “really never
    thought about it? What you’d do after Batman?”
</p>
<p>
    The older man shrugs, almost defeated. “I never thought there would be an
    ‘after Batman,’” he admits. “Not for me.”
</p>
<p>
    “Jesus, Bruce,” Dick exhales, running a hand over his face. “Really? Not
    even at the start?”
</p>
<p>
    He shrugs again, looking helpless. “I didn’t think I’d make it a year, at
    the start.” At Dick’s wide-eyed look, he continues. “I wasn’t…in a good
    place. Before Batman. But after, once I saw I could make a difference, help
    people, I—” Bruce shakes his head, uncertain. “I don’t know, anymore. I
    thought it…fixed me. But maybe it was just a crutch.”
</p>
<p>
    “Are you going to be okay,” Dick asks carefully, “without it?”
</p>
<p>
    Bruce exhales slowly, then looks at Dick with a tiny, sad smile. “I guess
    I’ll find out.”
</p>
<p>
    ------
</p>
<p>
    The next time Jason wakes up, he’s in a warm, soft bed. The heavy weight of
    Roy’s arm is resting over his shoulders. Little feet are pressed against
    his stomach, toes digging into vulnerable skin, just shy of painful. He
    blinks his eyes open to meet Lian’s huge, dark brown ones.
</p>
<p>
    “Hi,” he mumbles, blinking the sleep from his eyes.
</p>
<p>
    Lian’s face lights up and she giggles, voice hushed. “Hi, Uncle Jay.”
</p>
<p>
    Jason smiles softly. “Missed you.”
</p>
<p>
    “Missed you more,” Lian says, reaching forward to wrap her arms around his
    neck and kiss his cheek sloppily.
</p>
<p>
    Pressing a kiss into her hair, Jason closes his eyes and breathes in the
    smell of Roy’s apartment. Cheap cologne. Johnson &amp; Johnson children’s
    shampoo. That expensive, irritant-free detergent Roy started buying when
    Lian was even littler than she is now. Safety. Happiness.
</p>
<p>
    Home, he realizes. It smells like home. Maybe as much as the manor ever
    did.
</p>
<p>
    A warmth spreading through his body that can’t be explained by the blankets
    alone, he whispers: “You ready to get up?”
</p>
<p>
    Lian nods her head against his chest. He wraps an arm around her and eases
    them slowly out of bed, putting weight on his good leg first and testing it
    gingerly before standing.
</p>
<p>
    “Pancakes?” he asks quietly, tugging the blanket back over Roy. “Or
    waffles?” Roy sighs and shifts, pulling in the arm that had been wrapped
    around Lian and Jason, but he doesn’t wake up.
</p>
<p>
    “Pancakes!” Lian says in quiet excitement.
</p>
<p>
    “Sounds good, baby girl.” Jason closes the bedroom door carefully behind
    them, then pads barefoot into the kitchen and sets his goddaughter down on
    the countertop. She grins up at him happily, her tiny face filled with joy.
</p>
<p>
Jason presses another kiss to her forehead, then grins back. “Missed you <em>most</em>.”
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Some final notes: </p>
<p>1) I'm pretty sure that pre-Batman Bruce being (directly or indirectly) suicidal isn't canon, but I've always thought it fits, both for his character (who decides to run around the streets of the most dangerous city in the country, at night, and beat up criminals without being pretty unconcerned about the possibility that it kills them?) and for Alfred, who I've always struggled to believe would enable Bruce's recklessness with his own life and safety unless he thought the alternative (Batman-less Bruce) was a greater risk.</p>
<p>2) I meant for this fic to be gen, but somehow it came out a bit ambiguous, so if you want to read it as Roy/Jason, be my guest.</p>
<p>3) I have some more stuff in the works for this universe, but the real world has gotten pretty busy for me these last few months, so it might be a long time before any of it is finished, much less posted. I do have an unrelated Bruce-is-Jason's-bio-dad fic nearly finished that will probably go up first, so keep an eye out for that if you're interested.</p>
<p>4) The lines Bruce reads to Jason are the actual first lines of Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen. Oddly fitting, yeah?</p>
<p>This is the longest fic I've ever written by a mile and the support and encouragement along the way has been awesome. Thanks again!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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